


Profoundly Different

by amireal, tiamatv



Series: Profound [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (it all goes happily we promise), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Blow Jobs, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Coming Out, Dorks in Love, Fallen Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Frottage, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sam has a lot going on right now okay?, Secret Relationship, Snuggling, Supernatural Season 4 AU, Supportive Bobby Singer, the impala is not a sex toy (okay maybe it is)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 190,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28276224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amireal/pseuds/amireal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv
Summary: "Castiel?" Sam calls out, carefully. Both of them lower their guns but don’t put them away, yet: there’s no sign of a struggle, but the guy did just break out of an insane asylum by squishing an orderly. With a bureau that he shouldn't have been able to move. "We're not gonna hurt you. We're here to help. My name is Sam. This is my brother, Dean."There's a loud silence. Dean can hear the wind rustling through the structure.A deep voice suddenly speaks up. It’s coarse and raspy and sounds like it hurts coming out; he’s never heard anything like it. It sends shivers down Dean's spine."Dean?” the man asks. “Dean Winchester?"(A Season 4 AU: what if the fallen angel Dean and Sam ran into was Castiel, not Anna?)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Profound [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2191587
Comments: 719
Kudos: 507
Collections: Angel’s Supernatural favorites





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Ami:** WHoOO boy. Okay. So like. How long this kept getting was like a running gag. It's COMPLETE, we're just dotting the i's and crossing the t's. 
> 
> Posting on Monday/Thursday.
> 
> This is easily the longest thing we've ever written by like... 400%. *wipes away anime sweatdrop* I hope you people enjoy gross romance. Because this is basically a passive aggressive shmoop reaction.
> 
>  **Tia:** Ami and I started sketching out the first sappy scene of this sometime in October. We decided to officially start writing this together just around the time of the finale.
> 
> By three weeks later, we were some 160K in, fueled by rage, fandom, and the desire for everything to just be a little bit better. A little bit nicer, a little bit sweeter, a little bit more good.
> 
> So if you’re looking for angry relationship misunderstandings, miscommunications, the boyos being awful to each other, or fuss about who tops or bottoms or whatnot, you might be disappointed. If you’re looking for schmoop, love, a bit of angst, a lot of very sweet smut, and our favorite found family fighting the Apocalypse, this might be for you.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this as much as we enjoyed writing it!

It’s not the first time he and Sam have dealt with psychics-or-something, but it’s the first time they’ve gone looking for one that demons are trying to eat.

It’s also the first time they’re going looking for a psychic-or-something that managed to crack himself out of the looney bin by squashing an orderly behind a chest of drawers. One that was supposed to be _bolted_ to the ground. 

Oh, and the orderly might’ve been a demon. (Probably, if the smell is any indication.)

But what the hell, these days Dean’s coming back from the dead, and they have preppy boy angels with floppy hair popping into their motel room (what kind of name is ‘Inias,’ anyway) and _actually_ saying “Be not afraid.”

(With an entrance like that, Dean doesn’t think Uriel gets to be mad that Dean shot Inias in the face. It wasn’t like it even so much as messed up his hair. Whenever someone says ‘be not afraid,’ that normally means that there’s reason to be _really fucking afraid_.)

It says something when even _Dean_ thinks that their life is getting weird.

Dean doesn't look over as Sam flips through the sketchbook. The sun is starting to come up, and it's touching the Impala's dash, glaring off the white pages his brother's flipping through. The smell of sulfur from the asylum is still stuck in Dean’s nose. Fuck, that takes _forever_ to get out.

"So... whatever the deal is with this Castiel guy—" Sam says, flipping to another page.

Dean grunts. "Yeah. The demons want him, and they're not screwing around. I mean, he says he knows the score of the apocalypse, right?" he continues, watching the lane lines flash yellow in flickers out of the left side of his windshield. "And that's not just 'Girl Interrupted,' that's... I mean, well, where do I go after busting out of the nut-box?"

He doesn't have to look over to hear the smirk in Sam's voice when his little brother says, "The nearest burger hut?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Someplace I feel safe." He can practically feel Sam shrug. There's more paper rustling. Dean keeps an eye on it out of the corner of his eye, tapping a bored song with his fingers on the steering wheel. He has an idea. "His parents were religious right? Any pictures in there look like a church?"

"Let me look."

About one third of the way into the sketch book, there’s a drawing of a stained glass window. They pull into a motel parking lot to steal some Internet, but they find a promising lead. Sam even pulls up some photographs of a now-defunct church on his laptop: it matches nearly exactly. 

Dean puts the car in drive, glad to finally be moving forward again.

Dean hasn't had a chance to look through that sketchbook, but Sam seems to be finding something real interesting in it—not that Sammy's ever had a thing for artistic nudes or anything, but he's turning it from side to side like there might be something in there Dean wants a look at later.

But they're at the church before they hit another stop light, the sun edging over the church and catching on the steeple in a flash that makes Dean shade his eyes through the windshield. There's an old sedan half-on and half-off the gravel, tipping into the grass by the side. Dean checks his bullets before they get out.

There's no stink of sulfur in the air—so that's good—but there's _two_ sets of footprints leading up to the front of the church. Well, shit.

Dean points to Sam, signaling for him to go around. There's a second, smaller door off to the side; there almost always is, with these old churches. Seriously, what does it say about Dean’s life that they know this about churches? They both enter at once, braced for impact. But inside, it's mostly just dust motes, aging wood and streams of sunlight through broken boards and windows.

"Dean." Sam points with his gun towards a half-open doorway. The footprints lead there, scuffing through the dust. Still two pairs. "Castiel?" Sam calls out, carefully. Both of them lower their guns but don’t put them away, yet: there’s no sign of a struggle, but the second person is worrying. "We're not gonna hurt you. We're here to help. My name is Sam. This is my brother, Dean."

There's a loud silence. Dean can hear the wind rustling through the structure.

A deep voice suddenly speaks up. It’s coarse and raspy and sounds like it hurts coming out; he’s never heard anything like it. It sends shivers down Dean's spine. "Dean?” he asks. “Dean Winchester?"

Sam twists to look at him, but Dean barely sees his brother move. There’s just… there’s something. Something about that voice. 

Dean’s gun slips into its holster at his side, the smooth, familiar weight of it leaving his hand. But he's not sure he feels that either. He hears Sam's breath hiss, and his nerves spark at the sense of motion, of _person_. He takes a step forward. Another.

It's not good when someone knows him. It's really not good when someone knows _their_ last name.

But...

"I... know you?" Dean says, warily. He doesn't—does he? He's sure as hell he'd remember that voice, grated and dark.

There's a rustling from a small pile of wood and old pews that looks like someone tried to build a makeshift snow-fort in the corner. A second voice he doesn't know hisses, "Cassie!"

But someone is standing up from behind the junk pile, and his eyes meet Dean’s.

"It's really you," a man in hospital scrubs says, softly, and the echo of his voice feels like a touch. He's so backlit by the light streaming in from a cracked window near the ceiling that Dean can barely see his features, but it looks like he’s wearing a trench coat covering up what must be asylum-wear. It's not a great look, and yet, somehow, Dean can't take his eyes off him. 

A second figure stands, slowly, warily. He's also backlit in the same way, but Dean doesn't care to look too hard at him. The first man has all of his attention.

"The angels are talking about you," Deep Voice says. "You were in Hell, but they pulled you out. Some of them have a lot of faith in you. And some of them don't like you at all." He takes a few steps out of the sunbeam, and his outline finally resolves into messy dark hair, five o'clock shadow on a crisp jawline, and eyes so striking Dean might actually lose his breath a little.

"They talk about you all the time." Castiel—it has to be Castiel, right?—says, softly. He takes a few steps closer. "I feel like I know you. But I didn’t know it was _you_."

Okay, what’s that supposed to mean?

Sam finishes holstering his gun. Dean didn’t even realize he moved to stand beside him. "So, you... talk to angels?"

Castiel shakes his head. "No. I just overhear their voices."

"You _overhear_ them?"

"In his head." A second voice, from the other man, joins in. It's higher pitched and so tonally different that Dean starts when he comes close enough to see fully. He’s wearing slacks and a button-down, but otherwise? The two guys are pretty fucking identical. "He says he hears them in his head." He stares at Dean. "Holy Lord in Heaven. It’s... you? You're _real?_ "

"Last time I checked," Dean answers, before he has the time to let his brain catch up with his mouth.

Sam, beside him, is looking back and forth so quickly his hair is swinging. "There's... two of you? I thought..."

But Castiel isn't paying attention to Sam. "Everyone said you were a dream. All my life. You always said that, right, Jimmy? But I knew," he says, and there's an expression on his face that Dean thinks he should recognize—a little tip to his head, a little curve of his lips. It’s… sweet. "When the voices said 'Dean Winchester is saved...' I didn’t know. But I’m so glad."

Dean has no idea what he’s saying, or what conversation they’re even having here. The guy’s nuts.

But the eyes looking into Dean’s are blue and bright, and completely sane.

Higher Voice—Jimmy—sighs. "September 18th." He's looking at Dean, too, but it doesn't feel the same. He doesn't _look_ the same. Which is a fucking ridiculous thing for Dean to think, because even he can tell from here that they're identical twins.

Dean starts. "The day I got outta Hell?"

"I'm so glad you're safe," Castiel says, and the sincerity of it rocks him. He sounds like he means it.

They don't get much more out of the—brothers?—before Ruby joins in. Then they’re kind of busy calming Castiel down, because holy shit, the guy can see her demon face. From the way he goes hysterical, it’s pretty fucking ugly. So there’s that.

No wonder they’re out to kill him. 

And by the time they're done with that little project, Dean's worst nightmare comes knocking.

Alastair.

He kicks their asses without even breaking a sweat. Dean doesn’t have time for flashbacks or some sort of PTSD episode but fuck if forty years of his worst nightmare walking around in the real world, being casually violent—Dean’s worst nightmare attacking _Sam_ —isn’t the most frightening thing Dean’s ever experienced. 

It’s so damned horrifying that Dean even trusts Ruby to split off from them and protect the twins. Get them away. Get them someplace safe. They don’t have a choice.

It's difficult to run while holding back bile, but Dean's done it before. It's a mad dash to safety and once he has a chance to think again, instead of just react, the very thought that they've left Castiel and Jimmy in the hands of Ruby makes him feel even sicker. What the hell is happening? When they all finally catch up with each other, it's in a cabin in the woods Ruby has made relatively demon safe.

He's forced to eat his words when he thanks Ruby, ‘cause she came through. This time. Castiel and Jimmy seem perturbed, but whole and healthy. 

But they don't get much more out of either brother before the whole thing seems to be starting all over again, only this time, angels are knocking at the door. Busting down the door.

Uriel looks pissed. He always looks pissed, so that’s not new, but now he looks like he’s pissed and ready to deal violence. Inias, who’s kind of a tweed, even looks sorry, but he doesn’t say anything to stop his big brother when he says, “The abomination must die.”

More than anything, that convinces Dean that Castiel is the real deal. What kind of real deal, though, he has no idea.

By the way? All that PR about angels being merciful is BS. They just stood there with the dead coming back. Inias literally did not seem to give a shit when he told Dean they were going to destroy a whole town just to keep Samhain from rising. And after, when Dean shoved the fact that they’d saved everyone into his face, Inias just shrugged and said, “But you failed. Samhain rose. Do better next time.” 

Fucking winged dicks.

"Look, I know he's wiretapping your angel chats or whatever, but that ain't a reason to gank him." Dean's gesturing behind his back to Sam to get the twins _down_ and out of the way of angelic smiting. But when he glances over his shoulder, that's not exactly what's happening.

Castiel's standing protectively in front of Jimmy, shoulders straight and chin up, eyes _blazing_. He looks about a foot taller than he should in a pair of white sneakers, asylum wear and a trench coat. His hand is raised, ready to fight or defend, but there’s something off about the stance—like he’s missing something.

A second ago, when the angels first landed on this outfield, Sam called Castiel an 'innocent bystander.' But looking at him now? Dean's not so sure.

Innocent—maybe.

Bystander, though? Not a chance.

Uriel smiles, sweet as poisoned pie. "Don't worry, I'll kill him gentle." He cracks his neck. "Them, I guess."

Jimmy makes a small sound in his throat like he's about to cry. Castiel wedges him further back into the corner. "Try," he growls.

Sonofabitch. Big words for a little guy without so much as a shoelace to fight with, Dean thinks. But then they've got Inias and Uriel charging towards them, and Dean's a little too busy trying to keep from being squashed like a goddamned cockroach to worry too much about the fact that Uriel called Castiel "far from innocent."

Like Dean’s gonna take advice from someone who calls him a 'mud-monkey' every chance he gets.

Except the heartless sonofabitch is a _strong_ sonofabitch, and one little love tap from him across the jaw almost turns Dean’s lights out. Uriel didn’t even brace for it. Just reached out and just kind of _tapped_ with his knuckles. 

Dean's whole world is still rattling from the punch that almost twisted his head around when the whole world lights up in cold white shadows around them.

Someone screams, high and thin, and when Dean blinks the spots out of his eyes, the angels are... gone?

"Ouch," Castiel mutters, looking down at his arms—which are, okay, why the fuck is he covered with blood? As far as Dean knows the angels didn’t even make it to him! 

"How'd you do that?" Sam asks breathlessly, but he’s not talking to Dean.

Castiel gestures at the mirror and everyone looks to see some sort of... sigil? It’s a circle around some kind of a set of corners, a triangle, a couple of scribbles around it. It’s smeared, messy and drawn in blood ( _gross_ , why is it always blood). Castiel’s hand is red with it. His fingers come open, and he drops a piece of glass to the floor, smeared dark. He catches the sleeve of his trench coat before it sags into the open wound on his forearm.

“What did you do?” Dean demands. “Did you… did you kill them?!” That can’t be good, can it? Not that Dean hasn’t thought about how much he wants to put his fist through Uriel’s face sometimes, but he also doesn’t want fucking angelic retribution on all their heads, either.

Castiel blinks. “Oh. No, I wouldn’t know how to do that. I think…” he looks at the smears on the mirror with a weird kind of calm. “I think that banished them. Sent them away. I hope, far away.”

It's possible to banish angels? Dean would really have liked that information weeks ago. The winged dicks could use taking down a peg now and then. All powerful, his ass. 

But how the hell did Castiel even know how to do that?

Sam’s already got his mouth open to ask, but Jimmy makes a soft, shaky noise first. "Cassie, that's… that’s a lot of blood." Jimmy's high-pitched worry almost grates on the ears, but fuck, he’s got a point: that _is_ a lot of blood.

Castiel looks down and blood drips off the ends of his fingers. “It hurts,” he says, like he’s surprised by that.

Cuckoo for cocoa puffs. But Dean can’t deny that he saved them: Uriel probably would have twisted Dean’s head around in a 180 just for fun, he looked so pissed.

The kit’s in the Impala, but they’ve been running around trying to keep seals from breaking like damned monkeys, and there’s been no time and money to restock since the last emergency. There’s no gauze in there. "Yeah. I got it." Dean ruffles around in his duffel, and pulls out the cleanest bandana square he's got. 

There’s nowhere to sit that doesn’t look like it might collapse under them, so they end up sitting on the floor, Castiel holding out his arm to Dean. Sam scouts around to make sure they don’t have any black-eyed company coming while Dean wraps the open cut carefully, holding Castiel's elbow still while he does it. Jimmy hovers. (Of course he does.)

Dean’s fingers skim along the soft skin of a surprisingly muscled forearm, and Castiel sucks in a shocked breath. 

“Sorry,” Dean says, easing up on how tight he was wrapping. He forgets not everyone’s as used to getting banged up and patched up as him and Sammy. He wasn’t kidding around: he cut deep, and between, not against, the tendons. Ordinarily, Dean would sew it up, but they don’t have any numbing stuff left, either. 

"No. You didn’t hurt me," Castiel breathes out, shakily. His eyes don’t leave the way Dean’s fingers are moving on his forearm. "That… I see. It explains a lot."

Dean blinks, pauses his first aid, and stares. It doesn’t sound like he’s talking about the band-aid job Dean’s slapping on his arm. "What?"

Castiel’s chin tips back, and he stares into Dean’s eyes, his head tilted. It takes a long time for him to answer. Dean’s not sure why he doesn’t try to look away.

"Let's worry about our safety first," Castiel says, finally. He says ‘our,’ but his eyes slide in a quick up and sideways glance, towards his brother. 

Dean nods, understanding.

The twins sit quietly in the back as they cruise down the highway towards Bobby's, but whenever Dean looks up to check his rearview, there's _two_ pairs of blue eyes giving him the hairy eyeball, now, not just one. Okay, that's not weird at all.

Finally, it's Jimmy who speaks up. "I just... I can't believe it."

Sam's always been better at giving That Talk to the civilians, so Dean's about to leave him to it. But out of the corners of his eyes, Sam looks up and frowns, twisting over his shoulder. "What do you mean? You were the one who drew that sigil."

"No. That was me," Castiel answers, from the other side, and how the hell can't Sam tell them apart? "It's... it all makes sense, now.” He seems to squint and reconsider. “Some things."

"Angels just tried to _kill us_ , Cassie!" Jimmy answers, his voice rising to a harsh squeak. "Okay, I get that you've been dreaming of this guy here all your life, that's nice for you, but what part of that _makes sense_?!"

Dean’s hands grip onto the wheel so hard the Impala swerves under them—fuck! Dean rights the car. Sam grabs the oh-shit handle and glares at him. Dean glares back, then shoots another one into the rearview mirror for good measure.

Jimmy's not staring at him anymore, but Castiel is. One corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile. Almost... what the fuck, playful? He doesn't look away when he says, "Not all angels are terrible. At least I hope not? I think I might be one of them."

Dean nearly swerves Baby again.

"Jesus Christ, Cassie, what the fuck?" Jimmy yells.

Castiel's eyes finally pry themselves away from Dean's rearview mirror. There’s a soft creak as he leans back in the seat. And then he… chuckles? Yeah, that’s what that is, low and intimate and all sorts of confusing right down Dean’s spine.

"Why are you laughing?" Jimmy snaps.

"You cursed. _And blasphemed._. It must be a very special day." Castiel's amusement is all through his voice. When Dean glances at him again in the mirror, his smile is pink-edged, wide and catching—and he’s looking at Dean like he’s inviting him to share the joke.

Dean has to bite his cheek to keep himself from mirroring it, and focuses back on the road.

Jimmy shifts around in his seat. Dean can almost hear his frown. "Fuck you very much."

"Mother would wash your mouth out with soap," Castiel taunts. Dean decides that this brother—clearly, the one that’s not a tightass—needs some kind of a nickname. And not that abomination, 'Cassie.'

"Okay, okay, sonofabitch, don't _make_ me pull over," Dean threatens, over his shoulder. "I don't know which of you's the big brother, but you both need to grow up and explain what the hell's going on."

This time, Castiel actually laughs out loud—soft and a little rusty, like he doesn't do it often. But the joy in it is real.

(Jimmy doesn't laugh. Dean's pretty sure he already knows which of the brothers is more fun.)

"Castiel, what do you mean—you think you're an _angel_?" Sam asks, and okay, yes, Dean heard that, but he didn't think he actually registered it.

"Pretty sure that's a lifetime job with no chance of retirement, Cas," Dean points out. Eternal job? Iniais was never much forthcoming on the details of angels, other than getting kind of twitchy and pissy every time Dean asked why he wasn’t helping.

"I'm sure they think so, too. That's probably why they're trying to kill me," Cas answers, very dryly.

Jimmy snorts. "Uh-huh." He doesn't sound like he believes the whole angel business. Dean doesn’t know if that’s comforting or scary, considering that he’s Castiel’s _twin_. "But what's any of this got to do with him?" He gestures with one hand over the back of the Impala's bench seat, across the gap where he's scrunched himself behind Sam with one foot pulled up to his chest.

Dean rolls his eyes. Rude, but okay.

"I'm not sure yet," Cas says, softly. His eyes meet Dean’s again. Dean doesn’t remember looking away from the road. "So... everything, I'm guessing."

Something sweet and hot touches the back of Dean's throat, colors his face. He gulps it down and clenches his teeth, looking away from those eyes in the rearview mirror. The road stretches out in front of him, nothing but trees and highway and the blast of trucks going in the opposite direction.

"Well, we got about five hours to kill," Dean says. He hopes not even Sam can hear the hitch and roughness in his voice, or at least can dismiss it as the result of two shitty fights with overpowered creatures in under twelve hours. "So speak."

Cas seems to focus off on a point in the distance. "I have… memories. I think that’s what they are. They used to be mostly in dreams. Some of them are not… great memories. Of a battle, a great and terrible battle for a single soul—the brightest soul you could imagine. It was the most important task in all of creation."

Dean shivers. There's something to Cas's words. Some deep truth that Dean can feel in his chest, all the way down to his marrow, despite the distinct lack of actual details.

"Night terrors," Jimmy supplies. "They were night terrors."

Cas licks his lips. "I don't think they were. Were they, Dean?"

Dean flashes, briefly, to a struggle with a certain warmth—a cocoon of strength—a cool, gentle blue that started out otherworldly but became so, so familiar..

"They had you in the deepest pit," Castiel intones, voice so much rougher and deeper than before—Dean didn’t even think that was possible. "They had you guarded, surrounded. You were their prize and they didn't want to let you go."

"I don't remember," Dean says, and his voice grates in his throat.

It's a lie. He does. He remembers the chains, the ties that bit into every inch of his skin even though he knows that's not even possible, the way he bled and screamed. He remembers when they took the metal off and let him free. Except he wasn't free, was he? The knife in his hand chained him there.

Then something held out a hand to him. Something touched him and said his name, and he knew—but he didn't deserve—

Cas's eyes are inside his in the mirror, and the moment of understanding in them makes Dean look at his own knuckles, clenched white on the steering wheel. Shit, shit.

"Good things do happen, Dean," he says, and it's gentle. "And you deserved to be saved. I'd know this even if I didn't know my own name."

Jimmy's the one who breaks the silence, because Jesus fucking Christ, what does someone even say to that? "They... weren't all bad dreams, though, Cassie, were they?"

Cas finally looks away and Dean feels like he can breathe again. "There are moments. Different times.” He shifts around. “I think I was in Egypt during the plagues. Also, Babylon during the great exile. Sodom seemed like it was a nice place before, well."

Dean can tell that wasn't the nice gentle segue Jimmy was looking for, though he gets the feeling Cas does that kind of thing a lot: start doing the hokey pokey when the two options are left and right.

"This is why you don't get invited to parties," Jimmy mutters.

"No," Cas replies idly. "It's because I was a religious studies major and you told me that made me sound like a 'fuddy duddy.’"

Sam, of course, latches onto the point that seems to matter not at all to Dean right now. "The plagues in Egypt? You mean—there really were angels there—" then he shakes his head. "Never mind that. But... if you were an angel..." then he blinks twice, three times. "Wait, you went to _college?_ "

Okay, because that's more important somehow than the fact that the guy just said he was an angel in biblical times? Focus, Samuel.

Cas laughs. "Well, I'm pretty sure I'm human _now,_ or at least I've been all my life. So... yeah."

Jimmy's still not laughing, though. (Dean's reserving opinion on the fuddy duddy thing.) He continues, in the same mutter, "You know, the doctors always did call you the family miracle."

"I'm pretty sure our father didn't think ‘oh, a miracle!’ when they figured out they were coming home from the hospital with two babies rather than one," Cas answers, amused. "But it may have contributed to everyone thinking I was going to become a priest."

Jimmy snorts. "No, I think that was the fact that you corrected our catechism teacher."

"Well, she was wrong."

"Yeah, and we were _eight_."

"She was still wrong." There's a stubborn lilt to Cas's voice.

Dean takes a deep, cleansing breath and tries to focus. "Human _now_?"

Cas's gaze comes back to Dean's and really, at this point he should just pull over and let Sam drive. Dean's never getting his concentration back. "I have a… new memory. Something was wrong, very wrong, and I was being hunted. Only I was still injured from our incursion to Hell, and weak from…" he pauses and squints, like he's gazing at the memory though a haze. "From rebuilding a body? I remember being cornered and having all of my options limited."

He stops. Dean can't stand the silence.

"And then?"

Cas shrugs. "Nothing. I'm not sure what happened next." There’s a long pause. “I didn’t have that memory before you touched my arm, though.”

Everyone lapses into silence, after that.

The next time Dean checks the rearview mirror, the brothers have both dozed off, their heads leaning together like a pair of matching bookends. When they're napping like this—when Cas isn't looking at him—they look younger, though it accents the bruised shadows under Castiel's eyes and the way Jimmy's still frowning, twitching in his sleep. 

Cas, though... Cas is so, so still.

Without those eyes on him, it's not as hard to look away. Dean shifts back to glance at the road. Sam flips to another page of the sketchbook, frowning.

"What do you make of it, Sammy?" he grunts. "All of this... angel twin bullshit."

Sam looks up, and his face is serious in that way it only gets when some shit's about to go down. "Dean... You should really look at this when we stop."

They do a pit stop about 3 hours in. Mostly a pee and snack break, and a chance to get some gas. It seems calm at the moment, but Dean doesn't want to be caught 3/4s of a tank down in a tight spot. The twins are solidly asleep: they don't even twitch when the car doors close the second time. He and Sam grab some extra snacks. Worst case scenario, they can stop at the side of the road if someone really needs to pee. They’re all guys here.

Dean is waiting for Sam to finish his business when the sketch book catches his eye. He picks it up carefully, paging through the images he's already seen. The new stuff at the end is a bit muddled. Some shadows. A criss cross of chains. A very strange-looking lion's head.

Then Dean gets to what he thinks Sam was beating around the bush about. 

Right there, in softly stroked pencil, is the handprint that's on Dean’s shoulder. There's even a freckle pattern or two that looks familiar. It’s lovingly, gently shaded, the edge of it blurred like with the edge of a thumb. 

It's… as precise as it is astounding. And freaky. Every detail is there. What the hell?

On the one hand, Dean wants to shake awake Cas and Jimmy, shake them until answers come falling out. On the other, Dean’s little brother is looking at Cas like he's starting to believe, and Dean can't figure out which is more dangerous.

The next pictures, though... Dean doesn't know what to think of those, either: the curve of a hand resting on a table, fingertips tapping around a bottle of beer with a label half picked-off. A pair of familiar eyes, staring out of the page: his own. There are little sun-lines at the corners, and a thick fan of eyelashes.

The eyes looking into him from the sketchbook are smiling. He'd put money on it.

Dean slams the sketchbook closed and meets Sam's eyes through the window. If that's pity Dean sees there, he's going to punch him.

Destiny isn't Dean's schtick, no matter what Inias says—hell, Inias may have been the first angel he ever met, but when the guy talks to Dean about ‘destiny’ and ‘Heaven has work for you,’ he doesn’t seem to believe half of what he’s even saying. Even _Dean_ doesn’t think Inias was doing anything but parroting the party line when he spouted out that bullshit. Dean Winchester’s just a hunter: a damned good one.

Who crawled out of his own grave with a handprint on his shoulder only Sammy and Bobby should have ever seen—up until Dean saw it in Cas’s sketchbook. And now he’s getting fucking _tingles_ from a crazy guy in a trench coat.

But it's also Castiel who wiggles a bit when the door slams closed, and mumbles, "Are there spicy pork rinds?"

As it turns out, there are. Dean doesn’t even remember grabbing them in the store.

They get to Bobby's at the crack of dawn. Jimmy grumbles as he gets out of the car, stretching and mumbling about old cars and their older seats. (Dean takes note and decides to take offense later.) 

Cas, though. Cas gets out and immediately turns to trace the line of the Impala's back window down to the body of the car, one finger moving along the glass, the shine of chrome, the deep black of her paint job. He looks rapt, briefly. His smile is small but heartfelt.

Dean's heart turns over in his chest in a way he's never felt. He can't tear his eyes away before Cas finishes his inspection of the car and turns back to him. 

This should be awful. There's a sketchbook full of _Dean_ in the front seat and it's the most revealing thing he's ever seen. How fucking dare someone know him like that, see him like that, without his permission.

He should resent the shit out of Cas. But Cas is smiling, softly, and he can't.

"Inside?" Cas asks.

Dean nods dumbly. "Yeah. The basement. I'll meet you there." There's shit to bring in from the car and Dean needs a minute.

When Dean finally gets down to the panic room, Bobby’s friend Pamela is looking back and forth between Cas and Jimmy like she's trying to figure which one of them she wants to take a nibble of first. Dean hasn’t met her before, but he’s heard good things, and he can recognize a spitfire in one glance. Ruby is standing just outside the open door with a sneer on her face, a little too close to Sam—no, a _lot_ too close to Sam.

Dean really should have taken more than that minute.

"So. What's the verdict?" Sam asks.

Pamela prowls a figure-eight around Castiel and Jimmy, and there's no 'like' about which one she's deciding to take a bite out of. Dean almost chuckles. No wonder Bobby recommended her. Jimmy's a little red-faced. Cas is turning just his eyes to watch her. She looks up and grins, glancing between their faces. "Are you two identical in _every way?"_

Ruby barks out a laugh.

"I'm gay," Cas answers, calmly, "And he's not, so... no."

Uh... what? Uh—

Most people don’t just come out with it like that, especially around these parts. Even Jimmy seems to think that’s a new brand of crazy coming from his brother, because he twists towards Cas: his eyebrows just hit his hairline and his mouth is hanging open.

"Aw. Pity." Pamela clicks her tongue. Jimmy closes his mouth and goes _hot pink_. "You read as human to me, bucko. I don't know, you sure you've got wings and halo under there?"

Dean's pretty sure that she's not talking about Cas's cuckoo nest getup.

Jimmy groans and drops his face into his hand. "Oh, no, you didn't just—"

Dean blinks. Nothing Pamela said sounded all that offensive to him—

"Actually, the religious iconography of the halo used to only be associated with Jesus Christ, not angels, and didn't appear in imagery until the fourth century," Castiel answers, with a small smile. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his trench coat and eases a hip out. "And as a representation of his logos, his divine nature, in some representations he didn't appear with it until he was baptized."

Sam blinks. Ruby takes a step back like she just developed allergies.

Oh Jesus fucking Christ, their weird new buddy isn’t just nuts, he’s a nerd. Sam's got company for real now. And Dean should find nothing about that statement Cas made at all interesting. But there's just something about the way his face lights up when he talks, the way his eyes are creasing at the corners a little—

"So, no, no halo," Cas finishes, with a little flick of one shoulder.

"Remember what I said about not getting invited to parties?" Jimmy mutters.

Cas rolls his eyes, and it's such a familiar brotherly gesture that he's suddenly back down to earth in a way that feels accessible to Dean.

Pamela slaps Dean’s ass on the way past him and then winks at him in a way that makes Dean mildly uncomfortable. And not the usual way, in his pants. 

More like an unshakable feeling that she knows exactly what's going on in his head and she understands it far better than he does. Dean does not like the feeling of being ‘understood’ when he has no fucking idea _why_.

Cas's eyes narrow a little thoughtfully at the exchange, but he says nothing. Instead he looks at Pamela, tilts his head and squints. "You… are a psychic?"

Beside his brother, Jimmy startles. "…seriously?"

Pamela smirks, pinches Jimmy's ass (who squeaks a 'married!' at her and that's not information Dean had but thinks he should have) and moves to stand right in front of Cas. "Well. I don't want to toot my own horn, but I'm not just _a_ psychic. I'm the best psychic in a four state radius."

Dean's not sure why Cas's eyes drift over Pamela's shoulder to meet his, or why they hold for just a moment again. But he's been doing that pretty much since they met.

He also has no explanation for the small, soft smile that curves Cas's lips, either, because that feels—it looks—a whole lot like a welcome, and maybe a bit like wonder. Shit, they just saw each other five minutes ago, and Dean doesn’t know this guy from Adam—not really. There should be no ‘welcoming’ going on anywhere.

"I'm not sure you should be poking around Cassie's brain," Jimmy says, shifting from foot to foot. "Cassie, you remember..."

Cas pulls his eyes away from Dean's, and the smile withers off his mouth. "That was a long time ago."

"You said he wasn't Pastor Roberts."

"He wasn't," Cas says, with the force of a knife twisting. His eyes flash. "And any attempts to hypnotize me were not that, Jimmy, I told you that." His gaze flicks to Ruby, and his lips arch downwards with distaste. “But no one would have believed me if I told them he was a monster beyond sin or redemption, either.”

Dean knew there was a reason he liked the guy.

The demon stuck to Sam's side blows him a kiss.

“Well, I’m not a demon,” Pamela says, practically.

“I know,” Cas answers. “I like your energy. But please don’t pinch my butt.”

That makes all of them laugh. Even Jimmy.

Pamela works quickly, gets Cas laying down on the cot. Once he’s down, lying stiffly on his back, she sits next to him, talking in smooth tones. It's all business with Pamela once she gets going, and that makes Dean's shoulders relax ever so slightly. Bobby mentioned going to her when Dean first got back, maybe get some answers, but then Inias popped up in their lives and everything went to shit. It’s good to know she seems to know what she’s doing.

At first it seems fine. Cas is reluctant to relax as much as Pamela wants, but he gets there eventually. He closes his eyes, slowly, and his last open-lidded look is directly at Dean. His fingers tremble and twitch by his side before curling into a tight fist.

Then Cas starts breathing in shaky little pants, loud and rasping in the panic room, and accelerating as Pamela starts to chant something low and slow and rhythmic. Dean takes a few steps closer without realizing it. He has to force himself to stop after three, but stopping takes so much of his concentration he misses when Pamela puts a hand on Cas’s bare wrist.

Then Cas screams. 

It's not like any scream Dean has ever heard and it hurts his head and his heart. All the lights whoosh and flare like candles blown out. Above them, a bulb shatters, then another, then another, leaving them all in the dark.

Dean fumbles for his lighter, but before he gets more than a few sparks going, the lights around the edges of the room are back on—all except the ones overhead that broke.

Except there’s no glass on any of them. There’s a neat little ring of crushed glass around him, around Pamela, around Cas and Jimmy. It looks like salt circles. It looks like they were _protected_. 

Sam slams in through the door, wide-eyed. “Guys, what—”

He pauses, too.

Pamela gets Cas back awake nice and quick after that. 

For a brief, long, few seconds everything pauses and all Dean can hear is Cas's rough, stuttering breathing. His face is white and tense, and even though his eyes are open again, they’re fixed blindly on the ceiling.

Then Cas shifts, sitting up. "Thank you, Pamela."

Pamela looks shaken, and that's not something Dean ever thought he'd say about the woman. "Those memories..." she starts, and then trails off, her lips white.

Cas cocks his head, and his voice is a little gentle when he says, "I'm sorry you had to see that. It's..." he breathes in and out, in and out. Dean's eyes follow the rise and fall of his shoulders. "It's been a little disorienting. But clearer now, I think." His eyes are sad, and fixed on his knees in their thin cotton pants. "Inias. Uriel. That... that was them, wasn't it? In the cabin. The ones who want to kill me."

Dean starts. "You know those dickbags?"

Cas doesn't look a thing like Jimmy when he raises his chin again. Dean has no explanation for why his heart hits _hard_ against the inside of his breastbone, but there's something that's almost... he'd fucking swear he's seen that expression before, but... "I'm pretty sure I led their garrison. Before. In... in another life."

Sam asks, "Do you mean... metaphorically?"

Cas chews on his lower lip. "No. Not... I don't think so. Before this life. Before..." and his whole face twists, shivers in pain. "I don't…” His expression goes slack and frustrated. “It's gone."

Pamela frowns. "Okay, but now they want to kill you?"

Castiel looks up. "I don't remember everything. But I know that an angel fallen is a dead angel."

Jimmy stands abruptly from the chair he's been basically collapsed in. "Cassie."

Cas drops his head. "James." He pauses and then corrects himself. "Jimmy. I know. I _remember,_ " his eyes get distant briefly and Dean's hands ache to do something. "I’m strange, but that has nothing to do with a past life. I'm not schizophrenic."

Jimmy looks ready to argue, but Pamela cuts him off. "He's not. You're worried and that's commendable. I'm not sure exactly what I saw in there, but it wasn't insanity, okay? I swear on your daughter's life."

Jimmy backs away from her, so shocked he puts a hand on the edge of the cot to steady himself, and Dean recognizes a trick when he sees one. Pamela just pulled something from Jimmy to assert her authority over all things brain. Cheap trick, but powerful as hell. It shuts Jimmy up, which they kind of need.

"Fine," Jimmy says. "Fine."

Cas looks sad, but he lets it go in favor of turning back to Dean. "Heaven doesn't like disobedience. Even without all my memories, they'll want me squashed before rumors can start."

"Also," Ruby chirps up from the open door, "before the demons get you. I don't think you appreciate how completely screwed we are."

"Ruby's right," Cas agrees. "Heaven wants me dead."

"And Hell just wants him." Ruby unfolds her arms and makes an expansive gesture towards Cas. "A flesh-and-blood angel that you can question, torture, that bleeds. Brother, you're the Stanley Cup. And sooner or later, Heaven or Hell, they're gonna find you."

Dean hears himself blurt out, "No, they won't," before he lets himself think too hard about it.

Well, shit, everyone's looking at him, now.

Ruby—because of course it's fucking Ruby—is the one who smirks. "Well, big man, unless you're planning to keep your little buddy locked up here in your little sex dungeon..." She spreads her hands and flicks a finger like she's pinging the demon ward she can't get through, even with the door open. "Don't rightly know what you're planning to do to stop it."

But Sam hasn't been completely taken over by whatever brainwashing shithold she's got on him, because he's nodding, too. "Bobby has some books on angelic lore, we can—"

Ruby laughs, high and shrill. Goddammit, Dean really does hate her. "Oh, because some _books_ are going to get us out from between Godzilla and Mothra? Armies of Heaven and Hell? Ring a bell? "

"I think you're underestimating books," Cas pushes himself up and shoves his shoulder against where Jimmy's gone dead white, leaning against the edge of the cot and swallowing over and over like he's keeping from puking. Even though Cas is the one who just got brain-boinked, he’s the one holding his brother up. He looks so calm, again. So... sure. "And I was more thinking... maybe my angelic grace."

Then his eyes drift over to Dean again. "But... I think I'll need more of my memories, first," he finishes.

"Grace?" Dean asks.

Cas falters briefly. He tugs on the edges of the coat he’s still wearing in an awkward fashion, his shoulders rolling strangely. "My grace, it's what… powers angels? It's energy and essence all rolled into one. I think—I hacked it off of me—"

"Hacked?" Dean can't help it. There's something about the way Cas says that: Dean knows that had to hurt, like taking off a limb.

Cas nods. "There's more than one way to fall, but at the time I had few options, so I took my own blade to my grace and I... cut. I wasn't the only thing that fell that night. My grace would have fallen with me."

Dean shrugs. Okay then. "So, what, you're just gonna take some divine bong hit, and, shazam, you're Michael Landon?"

Cas raises an unimpressed eyebrow, finally levering himself off the cot and back onto his feet. "Yes, exactly like that.” Then his head cocks to the side and he squints. “Only no, not really."

Dean claps his hands together in excitement. Okay, something to do that’s not running for their lives or moving to Timbuktu. He can get with that. "All right. I like this plan. So, where's this grace of yours?"

Cas steps closer to Dean. They're maybe an arm’s length apart. "Lost track. Something went wrong as it happened. I'll need some time to sort out my memories more. For now, I'm not sure how to find it."

Well, that’s fucking unhelpful.

Turns out, though, Sam has ideas. Dean lets him get wrapped up in research and heads out into the cool night air for some space. It’s fall, and sharp enough that each breath catches a little. The air smells like metal and soil.

Dean never spends much time looking up at the stars. A lot of time, if it's after dark and he's not asleep, he's either chin down and arms out with a pool table, on the run from something trying to eat his goddamned face, or making friendly with his old buddies Jose, Jack and Johnny in a small glass. Sometimes not a small glass, these days, because it's the end of the world, why fucking not. And the whole 'making friendly' of another kind hasn't really occurred to him since he was pulled out of goddamned Hell.

(That's not true. It has, he’s thought about it, but it's just—)

But here in the quiet back woods of South Dakota, surrounded by the soft metal groans of the salvage yard settling around him in the dark and the quiet woof of some of the dogs Bobby swears he doesn't feed chatting it up in the distance, Dean looks up.

It's... really beautiful. There's so little light that the stars really do look like they're twinkling.

What does an angel look like, falling? Cas made it sound like actual... fighting with gravity, falling.

When he hears the soft crunch of footsteps, Dean knows his nerves should jump, heavy. That his hand should fall to his Colt, that he should be saying "Who's there?" Just because this is Bobby's, and it’s always been safe, ‘safe’ doesn’t mean jack shit these days. It doesn't mean they ain't got the forces of Heaven and Hell out to get them.

And even if it is Sam, Dean should be saying he came out here for space and to be alone. Even Bobby's rambling place is starting to feel close and tight with that many bodies and that much fear and uncertainty in it. Pamela already booked it, and who can blame her? Who else would want to stand in the salvage lot anyway, leaning on a rusty hunk of junk in the dark?

But Dean doesn't say any of that, do any of that. He lowers his chin, instead.

It’s not Sam.

His first thought is, "Oh, someone gave Cas some new clothes."

His next is, "Fuck, are those... my clothes?"

Cas ducks his chin and kicks some small piece of junk away with the tip of his shoe and that's when Dean realizes he said it out loud.

"Sorry," Cas says, low, still not meeting Dean’s eyes.. He steps close, and then he steps just a little too close, almost to Dean’s side. "Those clothes, from that place. I don't have good memories."

Dean wonders if it's worth even attempting a personal space argument, especially since he's probably not going to mean one single syllable of it. So he shrugs instead.

Cas joins him the rest of the way, leaning back against the same car, face turned up towards the sparkling night sky. "It's beautiful, but it always makes me feel cold."

"Well," Dean huffs, not looking at all, despite the wall of warmth that's two inches from his side and dressed in his clothing. "Space."

Cas shakes his head. "It's not that. It's celestial. It's Heaven."

"I dunno," Dean shrugs. There's a shiver making its way up and down his back that's probably not just the coolness of the night air. "Being an angel seems pretty cool. It'd be nice not to have to worry about broken bones. Or, y’know, bleeding to death." He gestures with his chin at Cas’s bandaged arm.

Cas chuckles, low and derisive. "The funny thing is, I'm not sure how well I understood how wrong Heaven was when I chose to fall. I just knew there had to be a better way."

"Why did you?" Dean blurts out. "You know, uh... yeah. Fall."

Even though Dean's not looking at Cas, he can feel the guy turning, looking at him—that stare that's more than a stare, that feels like a finger on the side of his face. "I'm not sure," he says, finally, after too long a pause.

It feels like the first time Cas has lied to him. Of all the batshit stuff he's said, that's the only thing that feels like a lie. It shouldn't bother Dean—shit, he spends most of his life lying and feeling not a single hint of guilt about it. 

But it does; weirdly, it does.

He gives Cas a sideways glance, and mutters, "Uh-huh."

There's no reason at all Dean should feel hurt by a little white fib, or even a big goddamned lie. He's known the guy twelve freakin' hours. Cas doesn't owe him any answers. Dean can't even say they pulled Castiel’s and his brother’s asses out of the frying pan, because he and Sam sure as hell didn't know the sigil that Cas bled for.

But the tip of Cas's tongue peeks through his lips, flicks lightly at one corner. He hasn't looked away. Dean shouldn't be able to get any of these details in the dark. Fuck, he's so _close_. "It's true. I don't... I'm _not_ sure. I know some of the ‘how.’ I don't know... the details.” He breathes, and Dean catches the stutter of it. “But I... I have some idea."

"Yeah?" Dean says. He should follow that up with something else, 'cause that sounds like it might be important. But his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth somewhere along the way.

The side of Cas's hand brushing gently, almost accidentally, against his, pinkie finger against pinkie finger, should not feel like that. Like the first time in a long time someone's touched him and made Dean _feel_.

Dean stands there, frozen, chest heaving, shaky breath after shaky breath, and Cas stands with him, that gentle touch rubbing minutely. Back and forth. Back and forth.

"Feelings," Cas says, low in his throat, after an eternity. "That's something that's so different. I know that much. Did you know love could be cold? Harsh? Uncaring but all-encompassing?"

Dean flashes to his father. He doesn't answer.

"I knew nothing else," Cas carries on, probably not having expected a real answer. "Until here. Until this human body experienced them for the first time. The warmth of family, the camaraderie of friendship without the structure of the garrison, the despair of grief without duty to hold you upright and the spark of…" Cas trails off. His finger slides in, in. And suddenly they're holding hands. "Other people."

Dean's knees go weak. Cas is almost too forward—only he's not really doing much of anything. But there's a part of Dean, deep inside, that feels alive in a way he can't remember before. 

He's always thought about certain things. An idea that there is something out there for him, waiting, watching, has circled in and out of his brain for years. Before Hell, in his last run of sin and vice because fuck it, he was going to die so why the hell not, he'd given in to an impulse. One that he’d buried deep—but old, familiar. Not something he acknowledged often, or ever.

Thinking back now, Dean sees the physical comparison between the nameless dude from that bar, the guy from the truck stop. Dark hair and dark eyes, slim hips and long-fingered hands. Strong arms. Fast and dirty hand jobs in an alley. The weird, hot, solid feel of a cock in his hand that isn’t his own.

Dean had come, yes, definitely, and it had been sort of good, but it’d been… disappointing, too. Weirdly distant in the way sex never was for him before. That spark of excitement he thought he'd been looking for had been mostly absent.

He'd shrugged and moved on. He’d tried it, and that’d been that: nothin’ special, after all.

But now, with Cas's cool hand steady in his, Dean thinks maybe it could be pretty damned exciting with the right guy, after all.

Cas's thumb strokes against the side of his, and he smiles a tiny smile. In the long silence that stretches there, he doesn't let go. His skin warms against Dean's. He closes his eyes, and his eyelids flicker like there's memories moving behind them, or like he's dreaming.

"Every time I touch you, I... remember," he says, and the warm rill of his voice sends a shiver down Dean's spine. Or maybe that's the small smile that winks up at the corners.

"I dunno, is that good?" Dean asks. It's meant to be joking, but it doesn't come out sounding that way.

"I've been dreaming of you my whole life, and no one ever thought you were real," Cas answers, and if that doesn't send a shock down Dean's back, nothing should. And it does, it does, because Dean might not dream like that, but there's something about him that _knows_ just what Cas is talking about. "I didn't know why. I still... I'm still not sure why." The hand tightens carefully around his. "But maybe I'm starting to get an idea."

When Cas speaks again, his voice is quiet and soft and low. He doesn't open his eyes. "I may not know exactly why I chose to fall. But... I know that I'm not going back. Even if that means they kill me. Do you understand, Dean Winchester?"

"No," Dean answers, stubborn. He doesn't know if he's answering the question, or the idea of Cas—weird, dark-voiced Cas—getting offed by penises with wings. "No fucking way that's happening."

This time when Cas moves, still holding Dean's hand, it's to come into his eye-line. He looks determined, fierce, and his eyebrows are set with a small crinkle between them. His free hand reaches out to touch Dean's cheek. "If there's one thing I will always remember, it's that choice is a precious commodity. Please let me have this one. Please leave me mine."

Dean's chest fractures at the edges, and he finds himself leaning into the touch on his face. It's gentle and warm and callused. It holds him together when all he wants is to go to pieces. 

He doesn’t even know why he’s going to pieces. Cas is a pretty-eyed stranger. But he doesn’t _feel_ like a stranger. Dean should be afraid.

"It's a shitty choice,” Dean says, hoarsely. He’s not afraid.

Cas shrugs. "Sometimes that's all we have."

If that doesn't hit home, nothing will. Dean leans in, and their foreheads touch. It's an achy sort of comfort he gets from it. Cas sucks in a quick, hurried breath. 

"It won't be your fault if I die." It's a whisper, barely more than a murmur. "But it means a great deal to me that you care this much about it."

Dean's breathing is still shaky when he lifts back away. He tears his gaze away from dark blue eyes, and it’s a whole lot harder than it should be. "Cas, man, what the hell is this?" He can't not ask at this point. He can't pretend something isn't happening, because that would just be wasted energy.

Cas smiles. "You and I, we share a profound bond."

"How?" Dean asks desperately. "We met like six seconds ago."

Cas coaxes Dean's face up, so that their eyes can meet again. "I don't think we did." He licks his lips, eyes going uncertain briefly. "I think I'm the one that gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."

Dean's mouth opens, and closes. The touch of fingers underneath his chin burns, stings, and soothes. He's never met anyone who's made him feel this way, and it's fucking terrifying. He doesn't know yet if it's a roller coaster, or like freefall with no parachute. "How's that even possible?" he asks. "You're, what, thirty? I got out of the hot box like a week ago. And they told me. The angel who pulled me out is..."

He trails off.

He can almost feel Cas's little wry smile, from this close. "Dead? I mean, by angelic standards, I'm as close as can be, I suppose. Practically a corpse."

"Hey," Dean protests. "That ain't funny."

"It is funny, a little," Cas answers. He doesn't even fucking look _scared_ , what is wrong with him? "I have no idea." He molds his palm against the line of Dean's cheek. Shit, Dean wants to turn his face into it, press his lips to the center of it. He gets the dizzy, deja-vu feeling that maybe he already has—maybe that's why all of this feels so familiar. "But I know you. And I've always known you. Doesn't that count for something? Doesn't that have to mean something?"

Dean stares, caught between a warm hand and fathomless eyes, between duty and want, maybe even right and wrong. This shit is bad news. He feels almost drugged; is this what demon blood is like for Sam? Have they just sent another supernatural creature to trap the other Winchester? It feels a lot like the kind of plan those junkless dicks might come up with.

Dean tries. He tries to come up with the rage, the fucking indignation that he should feel at being hijacked like this... but he can't. There’s no anger left. All he can do is sink into it, slowly lower his head, hitch his breathing when Cas tilts also. They’re leaning in so close he can feel the exhalation of air out of Cas's lips and it's mesmerizing.

"Cas?" he croaks.

"Yes, Dean Winchester?"

"I don't want you to die." Dean croaks.

Cas smiles. Their noses touch, nuzzle. "Neither do I."

Their lips touch, briefly, searingly. Life-changing. 

Dean will never be the same again and it's the scariest thing he's ever experienced.

A loud slam breaks the kiss apart. "Dean!" Sam's voice calls from Bobby's patio, luckily out of sight of where Dean and Cas are standing. It’s still too close: the house is only a few yards away. "I think I found it!"

Dean's whole body jerks with the desire to get away, to not let anyone see, because—because—because why? He's not embarrassed, he's not ashamed. It's just...

But Cas smiles at him from still-too-close like he can see what Dean's thinking. He tilts back on his heels so their chests aren't resting together anymore (Dean doesn't know when that happened) and his hand lowers gently off Dean's cheek. When he turns away, it's to lean his back against the rusted heap behind Dean's back, side by side again. His next exhale is visible in the air.

"Aren't you going to answer him?" he asks, quietly.

Dean has to clear his throat twice before he can say, his heart is still hammering in his chest, "Yeah, what, Sammy?"

In the library, he makes sure to stand all the way across the table from Cas. Just to see if it makes a difference. It doesn't.

"So get this." Sam spreads open a pile of crunchy-edged newspapers. "A century-old oak that popped up right after a meteor shower in Union, Kentucky. What do you think of a small miracle?"

"I believe in them," Cas answers, simply.

Right this second, so does Dean.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Ami:** This chapter contains the original scene we came up with as the inspiration for this fic. So it's definitely got a warm place in my heart.

Dean finds out Cas sent Jimmy packing along with Pamela, and he's relieved. A concerned, uninformed civilian can be a serious liability, and Dean's already distracted more than usual. Sam, too. The drive to the big-ass supernaturally inspired oak tree is tense, in many different ways.

Cas seems to spend most of it meeting Dean's eyes in the mirror every time Dean checks. Dean seems to just _know_ whenever Cas's attention is back on him, like a warm shiver on his neck. By the time they pull over to the field, nearly empty save for an oak tree that is to oak trees like Sammy is to elementary schoolers, Dean's come to find it comforting. 

Which is slightly uncomfortable. 

(Dean can sometimes be a complicated dude.)

They get out and Dean gets his first look at the tree. "It's beautiful." 

Next to him, Cas puffs his chest out a little. "Thank you." Cas steps closer. "This is definitely where my grace touched down, I can feel it." He moves closer again, eyes drawn to the center of the trunk.

"You ready to do this?" Dean asks.

Cas turns and glances at him with a kind of infinite sadness that makes Dean's chest ache. "Not really."

Sam looks back and forth between them, but even Dean's naggy little brother seems to know better than to comment. "What exactly are we looking for, Castiel?"

Cas reaches out to put a hand on the trunk of the tree—fingertips first, lightly, then more firmly, his whole palm resting against the bark the same gentle way it rested against Dean's face not that long ago. His shoulders bow in, and his head ducks down, eyes closing.

Dean's hand itches, aches, and when he looks down, it's lifted a little away from his side. It's like it wants to go and rest on the vulnerable back of Cas's neck, that tiny strip of skin that's peeking over the top of the trench coat he pulled on over Dean's red flannel and jeans.

But there's no flash of light, no blue-white, no wings across the sky. There just... isn't. From the branches, an owl makes a soft, sleepy hoot.

"It doesn't matter," Cas says, softly. "It's gone. Someone took it."

Dean wants to walk over and comfort him, or congratulate him. He's not sure. He manages to control himself enough to be drawn into a debate of what to do next. If anyone can call it a debate, since it’s mostly just Ruby being… herself, rather than offering anything useful.

He's forgotten how easy it is to be utterly annoyed with Ruby. It’s weirdly reassuring, because the fact that Dean keeps wanting to go over and put a hand on Cas is not at all normal.

Behind him, Cas sucks in sharp breath and suddenly, Dean's entire body is aware of him again. "What?" he asks sharply, turning around

Sam’s and Ruby's attention immediately flick over to Cas. Dean fights down a bristle of annoyance at the way Ruby’s eyes skim up and down Cas, like she’s looking at a bug under glass.

Cas has one hand on his temple, and his face is tight with pain. "The angels are talking again."

"What are they saying?" Sam asks.

"It's weird... Like a recording... a loop. It says, 'Dean Winchester, gives us Castiel by midnight, or…'" Cas trails off. He looks straight into Dean's face, horror slowly dawning over his expression.

"Or what?" Dean asks, but he already knows the answer. Angels just aren't that creative.

Cas swallows, looking forlorn and lost. "…or we hurl you back to damnation," he finishes, very quietly.

"No." Dean and Sam say it sharply, together. Dean's not sure if they're answering the same question, though.

Dean takes one step closer. "Cas, you can't think that you—" didn't they just fucking have this conversation?! Didn't Cas just say he wasn't going back to the angels, no matter what?

"Do you know of any weapon that works on an angel?" Sam asks, urgently.

"To... hurt them, kill them?" Cas shakes his head. "Nothing we could get to. Not right now." Cas's eyes drop down to his hands. "I'll do it, of course."

No, fucking not a chance. Dean jabs a finger at his face. The defeat in Cas's shoulders is hard to see. The way he won't look at Dean anymore is even worse. "No. You do _not_ get to give up like that." He turns to Sam, already gesturing for his cellphone. "I say we call Bobby. Screw his vacation, we get him back here, and—"

Sam doesn't look nearly as upset about this situation as Dean thinks he should be. They don't do this. They don't give up the innocents to the monsters, no matter _how_ fucking hard it gets, and they're sure as hell not going to give Cas up like the sacrificial lamb just to save Dean’s fine ass.

"Dean, what's Bobby going to tell us that we don't already know?" When Sam gestures at Cas, Dean realizes that Cas has looked away again—that he's looking at the huge tree, up at its branches, with a tiny, resigned smile, like he doesn't think he's ever going to see it again. "Castiel already knows more about angels than anyone, than there is in the lore at all—I just spent the whole afternoon looking through Bobby's library!"

"I don't know," Dean grits out. Cas's eyes flick to his, and Dean doesn't let him look away, this time. "But we're gonna think of something."

The ride to the old barn they spotted on the way to the field is completely silent. Not even Ruby smartasses anyone. Which just goes to show, she’s smarter than she lets on, sometimes.

After an hour of watching everyone flipping through what few books they brought along with them, Dean fucks off to cool down. He's perched on the trunk of the Impala, a book in his lap that's he basically just staring at and not reading at all, when the crunch of gravel catches his ears. He looks up. 

Cas is standing in front of him, hands shoved into the pockets of his trench coat.

"Hey," Dean's voice is rough with disuse and unused anger. "Holding up okay?"

Cas starts to answer, and pauses. His shoulders slump. "Trying?" He shrugs, "Failing." He laughs quietly to himself. “This feels a little like the night before I defended my thesis. My heart is racing and I’m so sure of what I know and yet…” He kicks a small nearby rock. “I feel like I know so little.”

Dean whistles. “Thesis? Fancy.“ He winks. “You got tenure and everything?”

Cas sniffs. “Not all PhD candidates become professors.” He pauses and then smiles a small, sly smile. “Yes. Youngest in my department. By three years.”

They both laugh quietly after that, but it peters back off into the tense, scared silence of earlier.

Dean slides off the hood only to stop and lean against it. Cas looks small and alone and Dean wants to—well—he wants a lot of things and they're all overwhelming.

"I just wanted to…" Cas trails off and shrugs again. "I don't know."

Dean smiles tightly. "Well as long as you're not about to thank me for trying my hardest. Participation trophies suck ass."

Cas makes his way next to Dean, turning until he’s also leaning against Baby’s wide hood. There's about a foot of space between them, even if it doesn't feel like it. "Maybe I don't deserve to be saved."

"Bullshit," Dean cracks out.

But Cas just shakes his head. "I don’t know everything, but I know I rebelled. Do you know who else did that? _Lucifer._ ” Dean jolts with surprise, but Cas isn’t done. “I said ‘no.’ I said ‘Heaven didn't know what's best.’ And then I mutilated myself to prove a point—"

Dean leans over and kisses him. It's too much, he can't hear it. He won’t hear it.

Cas isn't… that. Dean knows it like he knows his own skin.

He doesn't know when one of his hands finds its way around the back of Cas's head, sliding into that soft, dark hair. Cas is the one who shifts closer, but when Dean’s nails scrape gently against scalp, Cas shivers with his whole body. It doesn't break the kiss, though—and this gentle little closed-mouth brush is the most innocent thing that Dean's ever given anyone, so why does it feel like so much? He thinks he could do this for hours.

If Cas is right about there being nothing that'll stop the angels, all they've got is hours.

Cas can't be right. He can't be.

Dean's the one who parts them first, but he doesn't let Cas pull back, tugging him back in with the hand he still has in his hair. Their foreheads clunk together, gently.

"I'm glad I found you. Or that you found me," Cas tells him. It sounds like he's saying goodbye. Dean's just about to go off on him about that—no, nope, no fucking way—when Cas's hand strays upwards and touches his forearm. There's no reason a little squeeze should feel like that through Dean's jacket and flannel. "But... may I... can I ask a favor?"

"Sure," Dean breathes. He can't imagine Cas would ask anything of him that Dean wouldn't be willing to give.

Cas's hand slides up Dean’s arm further, stopping just shy of the still-healing handprint on Dean's left shoulder. "I—I would like to see it? This? If that's okay." His fingers twitch. "I've seen it in my mind a hundred times, and I'd like to know I'm not going mad."

Dean's eyebrows rise. "Angels are cool, but the handprint wigs you out?"

Cas shrugs, but at their proximity it's just a feeling of warmth moving up and down Dean's body.

"Okay." Dean straightens off the hood and relaxes his arm, giving the fabric of his jacket enough slack to slip off. Next, he slides the plaid flannel shirt down his arm. All that's left is the t-shirt: the sleeve doesn't quite cover the bottom of the palmprint with his arms at this angle.

"Oh," Cas gasps. "It's there. It's—real." His fingertips graze the edge of it and Dean's eyes cross.

What the—? Nothing so innocent should feel like that—like a sweet shock, like coming home to whipped cream and skin. Cas has barely touched him—just a fingertip has traced the bottom curve of the palm on Dean’s deltoid muscle—and Dean's not sure he can take it. When Cas gently nudges his sleeve further up, careful of the raw skin, and the ghost of his warmth tickles over the prints of fingers molded over Dean's shoulder joint, he _knows_ he can't.

But oh, sonofabitch, he really wants to try.

"So how much of me _have_ you seen?" he jokes, shakily.

"I'm not sure I can answer that," Cas answers, in a whisper. "My memories of you were very lovely, but you're already so much better than anything I can remember." His thumb traces torturous, tiny lines just around where the handprint aches and aches, deliciously, on Dean's shoulder.

"Nnn," Dean's brain goes offline briefly.

While no one’s home but the crickets, Cas leans in and presses a soft kiss on Dean's chin. Then another, another, slowly making his way up to the bolt of his jaw. His hand continues to trace the lines of the handprint before carefully aligning to press against it. He sighs deeply. "Oh Dean. I can’t believe that you’re real... I can’t believe this is real.”

Dean shudders, toes curling. "Holy fuck." His eyes must be as wide as saucers. He's confused, but so turned on, and the connection he feels is something he can't deny. Cas, beautiful Cas, is pale in the moonlight, and looks at Dean like he's worth something. All Dean wants to do is just kiss him and keep doing it until they're drunk with it. And he’s sure as hell never felt that way about _kissing_ before.

He doesn’t remember moving, but comes back to himself to find them pressed together against the passenger door. Cas is clutching him tightly, hand still pressing gently on Dean's shoulder. They're breathing hard, hell, they're just _hard_. Cas's hips twitch and they both moan.

Dean doesn't have to look to know that Cas's hand—big but slender, graceful, long-fingered—molds to fit every inch of the handprint on his shoulder. He can feel that all the way down to his joints, his ribs, his spine. And lower.

He doesn't know how it's possible. He doesn't know how any of this is possible. Right now, he doesn't care. He wants, he wants...

Cas's eyes are fixed on where his hand is disappearing under Dean's shirt sleeve again. He closes his eyes like the touch feels as good to him as it does to Dean—though Dean’s not even sure how that's possible, because he’s had hand jobs that didn't feel this good.

And nothing has ever felt this, this _right_.

"I gripped you tight and raised you from perdition, Dean Winchester," Cas says, and the purr of his dark, raspy voice makes the breath stick in Dean's throat. "And then I fell for you."

Jesus Christ, that was like some shitty line from a bad porno—but God, Dean believes it coming from Cas. He feels unworthy of that sort of devotion, especially from someone who might have been an angel. What's Dean ever done, other than become the thing he hates most? 

"I'm not worth that," he says into Cas's lips.

"Oh, Dean," Cas sighs. "You are worth so much more." He leans in and captures Dean's lips again. "You are so full of love. You love so deeply, and what they let happen to you in Hell, what Heaven wanted from you… it was an abomination. But they couldn’t make your soul any less bright."

Cas's hand on his shoulder is an anchor: it keeps Dean grounded, keeps him from floating away and down a river of sensation. It's warm and solid, but also it zings with pleasure every time Cas's fingers move to find a better grip. The sleeve is just a bit too tight to allow much free movement, though, and Dean is about ready to say ‘fuck it.’

Then Cas’s gaze searches Dean’s face—lips, nose, cheek, forehead—and he licks his lips. When he meets Dean’s eyes again, the blue is just a thin rim around his pupils in the dark. “Please,” he says. “I want to know you.”

Dean doesn’t need to be asked twice. He twists them along the side of the Impala and reaches blindly for the handle to the back door.

There's a little tickle in the back of Dean's head that's saying that maybe he should ask Cas what exactly he means by 'what heaven wanted from you,' because as far as he knows, Cas hasn't said anything like that before. He's always said that he doesn't know how Dean fits into the plan. Something changed.

Everything feels like it's changing, though, and that little detail doesn't seem important right this second.

Cas is leaning sprawled across the back frame, breathing hard, as the door clicks open, and Dean doesn't think it's the dark that blows his eyes wide when he turns and glances into Baby's dark, sleek, roomy back seat. "Oh," he murmurs.

Then, before Dean's mind can settle and freak the fuck out because he might have just seriously misread some signals, Cas smiles a small, shy smile.

"I suppose," Cas murmurs, "if one were to have an activity they'd like to do on their last night on Earth…" He trails off, looking up at Dean through his lashes.

Dean laughs. "You are stealing all the good lines tonight."

Cas raises a single eyebrow, but it's not a question, not really. It's more of an invitation. Well, shit, that's just annoyingly hot. Dean finishes taking his jacket and outer flannel off, folds them carefully and sticks them at the other end of the bench seat. He then takes Cas's hand in his—it's still electric, touching him, even that chastely—and pulls gently, tugging with the greatest of care.

Cas moves with him, graceful and sure. He sits down, still facing Dean, finding his way onto the bench seat without even looking. Then he stretches out his legs and leans back, keeping Dean's hand with him, pulling him into the car as well. Cas stretches out, inching back just enough so that his head is supported on Dean's makeshift pillow. Dean goes with him, and pulls the door closed behind himself.

They press together and there's twin sighs of relief, delight and possibly something a bit tangier, headier. Cas's hands go to the hem of Dean's shirt, tugging gently, and just like that, he's shirtless.

"Hey, how come I'm the only one getting naked, here?" Dean complains, and even he's shocked by how deep his voice sounds in the confines of Baby's frame.

Cas looks down at the trench coat he's still wrapped in, the flannel, the undershirt he has on underneath it, Dean's jeans on his legs. He looks back up at Dean, and bats dark eyelashes. "You're nicer to look at?"

Oh, no, Dean's not having that. It's a bit more work to get Cas wiggled out of his trench coat, but it folds up really nice for padding, wedged against the door on the other side of the bench seat—just in case. And watching Cas undoing the buttons of the flannel he’s wearing—Dean's flannel—is a sight. His forehead creases with concentration as those long fingers undo each button, one by one, going down his chest... damn, damn.

Dean might be a little impatient by the time Cas has it open, but it's Cas who reaches out and catches him by the shoulder again like he can't stand to let go for any longer.

The zing of it is just as good as the first time. As every time. Dean grinds down against him because he can't help it, and Cas's moan feels like an earthquake against him.

Dean's hands frame Cas's face, pulling him in for another kiss. The hand not on Dean's shoulder slides up his neck and into his hair. They kiss, deep and slow and a little wet; Dean's skin feels electric, and each press of Cas's stomach against his is frighteningly good. It's all a little different than he expects (less soft bits, more facial hair) but it's still electric.

The fact that Dean’s never kissed another guy before Cas isn't even a blip on the radar. Cas's hand moves from Dean's hair down his neck and to his spine. It strokes softly and all Dean can do is grind down again, gasping helplessly.

At some point, Cas starts kissing other parts of him—down his chin, neck, across his collarbone and finally, one careful lick along the edge of the palm print Cas is still holding onto for dear life.

Dean gasps sharply, his whole body arching. This is insane, and one day he'll really want an explanation. But for now he settles for straddling Cas's hips: it's a tight fit with two men back here, but he manages it.

"Have you done this before?" Cas rumbles, and his fingertips dip just barely into the back of Dean's jeans. Not deep, not... not anywhere Dean hasn't had grabbed or stroked or petted before, but it feels like more, and Dean's not even goddamned naked yet.

Cas uses that hand to guide Dean down against him, settling their hips together. Slotting them, and they fit. It's not quite comfortable, with both of them still in jeans, but it's _good_.

"I, uh... not... I don't know." Dean knows he's a smooth customer; he's been taking names and panties since he was old enough to realize he could, so why the fuck did that roll of confusion just come out of his mouth? He has, he hasn't. He’s pretty sure Cas is talking about being with men, not just being in Baby's back seat, but the answer’s the same: yeah, he’s fooled around, but he's never had anything like this. "You?"

"Yes. I got into a dark place, and I thought, for a little while, that you weren't real. That you couldn’t be," Cas says, a little sadly. When his fingers leave the handprint, Dean shudders at how cold the air gets again, even in the stillness inside the car. But the hand is just sliding up the side of Dean's neck. Cas's fingertip traces the curve of Dean's lips. Dean wonders what he'd do if Dean opened his mouth and sucked that finger in. "It... it wasn't the same. Not... not like... it wasn't."

Dean knows just what he means by that.

They start up an intense sort of shifting of hips, low flat rolls that push their cocks against each other, bottom to top. Dean's not sure he's gonna make it to pants off, and he's starting to be really okay with that. Cas hooks his arms under Dean's shoulders and pulls him close, and that helps Dean grind down at the back end of each roll. It's bliss.

"Is there," Dean pants, feeling like he's usually a better (heh) host than this. "Is there something you want to do?"

Cas presses soft, sucking kisses down Dean's collarbone. "This is nice."

Dean's shaking a little as Cas's lips stray further and further sideways, towards... and he loses coordination a little as Cas's teeth nip hard where collarbone trails into shoulder. He wouldn't say he likes it rough, but he doesn't mind it a little sharp like that. He doesn't mind it at all, it turns out.

But the position Cas's head is in puts his ear right in front of Dean's mouth. Dean grins and puffs a little cool breath of air right into Cas's ear, and follows it up with a slow lick up his earlobe.

The sound Cas makes to that is sweet and high, and it vibrates against where Dean's skin is already a little wet with his mouth. His hips lift upwards into Dean's. The jeans are getting a little uncomfortable, now, too tight, but the rub is good enough to make up for it.

Dean decides to thoroughly explore the ear in front of him, sucking gently, tracing the outline with the tip of his tongue. He can't get enough of the soft skin right behind it, and he nuzzles in.

Cas keeps up with the gentle kisses on Dean’s neck and collarbone and high on his chest, followed by the occasional barely sharp nip. It's all so exciting, and it shouldn't be this hot with pants still on. Usually, by now, Dean is buried in a good pair of tits and looking for her panties. He's not sure what the similar scenario would be for two dudes, but he's sure it's not this almost-chaste kissing with the side of clothed grinding. His boxers are damp, sticking to the head of dick in the best of ways.

He doesn't realize how sweaty his skin is, how hot they've gotten, until Dean tears himself away from Cas just to look at him and realizes the thin moonlight coming through the windows is soft and blurry. The Impala's windows are fogged. Cas is sprawled out underneath him now, his shoulders loosening as he lets Dean sit up. There's something so content about his expression that it wrecks Dean a little bit.

He might not know much, but for all that Cas says that Dean is worth it—Dean knows that Cas deserves more than whatever this shitty life has given him. He deserves more than whatever this is—rubbing together in Baby's back seat in a salvage yard.

But he looks so damned happy to be here.

Cas smiles at him and traces the edges of the handprint. "Hello," he says, apropos of nothing at all, looking right into Dean's eyes.

Dean's right hand finds Cas's left. Their palms meet and then shift so their fingers can thread together. The bandage on Cas’s left forearm is very, very white. "Hi." Dean feels strangely shy, like Cas can see him, all of him—even the dark corners that Dean likes to pretend don’t exist.

Cas's fingers draw tiny spirals in the center of the palm print and Dean has to close his eyes, let his head fall back, and feel. Bone-deep connection tilts his hips against Cas's some more, happy pleasure running up his spine. There's a puzzle piece sliding into place, like a missing part of himself has been found, and being complete again is so replete with joy Dean can barely contain it.

"Cas," he rumbles. "What do you want?"

Cas rolls his hips in this small, rhythmic grind that tucks them together just right, and shit, that's perfect; it's like he knows something Dean’s only beginning to understand. The smile on his face is contagious, and Dean finds himself smiling back. The hand on Dean’s shoulder leaves the palm print, but it's only to trace Dean's collarbone, the line of his breastbone, the soft rise of his belly, pressing warm between them. The fingers of his other hand slot more tightly through Dean's, locking them together.

Then the asshole pokes a thumb into Dean's belly button, and Dean’s whole body twitches. Dean huffs out, "Hey!"

"I want to learn everything about you that I couldn't have possibly learned in dreams," Cas tells him, soft and slow. "I want to kiss you, taste you. I want to take you apart and put you back together. I want to tickle you and make you laugh." He smiles, pushes his hips up against Dean's again. "I want to see how your eyelashes flutter when you come."

Dean realizes Cas wants to try out a _life_ with him, and God help him, Dean wishes he could give him that. Dean’s not going to make a promise he can’t make good on, though, and Cas isn’t asking for one. But the other stuff? Some of that Dean can work with.

So with a shaking hand, he reaches between them, arching his back just enough to fit his hand there. He presses his palm right to the straining bulge in Cas's pants. It's warm even through the thick fabric and Cas's chest hitches a pleased, happy moan. Dean traces the outline of it, thumb and forefinger running up the sides. Cas's lashes flutter shut.

"Good?" Dean asks quietly. "You deserve good."

"Mhmm." Cas nods and then reaches between them to press Dean's hand more firmly against him. "Like this." He guides Dean's thumb up, running it up until it sits just under where the flared head must be. Dean thinks he can almost feel it all and it's the best thing he's ever done.

"Can I...?" It feels stupid to ask as he's already fiddling with a button—hell, as he's already got his hand molded around the guy's cock right through his pants—but Dean's always been good with permission.

Cas's eyes crease at the corner as he smiles, murmuring, "Please, yes—" and then a small "Oh," as Dean carefully works his button and zip down, his knuckles brushing and pushing because Cas is so hard that there's no way to avoid it.

He's wearing tightie-whities—which should not be sexy at all. Even in the thin light, Dean can tell they're as damp as Dean's own boxers when he pushes up to look at what he's doing.

And fuck, that's tempting. Cas is that hard for _Dean_ , that hot for him. This time, when Dean traces the outline of him between his fingers, Cas just about squirms. His moan this time is louder, and he sounds just as pleased as Dean's feeling with his hand on him.

Dean traces the head, spreading some of the liquid gathered there out; it makes the fabric a little slippery and it makes Cas a lot shivery. He lets out a shaky sigh. "Dean." Cas reels him in for a kiss. It's been minutes since their lips have touched and frankly, that's a crime. 

This kiss finally gets a bit messier, wetter. Cas's tongue sweeps into Dean's mouth and it's easily the best kiss of his life, including all the previous kisses with Cas. They go back to rutting, briefly. Dean needs his free hand to balance, gripping onto the front bench so hard he might leave marks. But Cas is fucking Dean’s mouth with his tongue and Dean might be ruined for anyone else ever again.

When Cas releases him, it's only far enough to get his lips on other parts of Dean's chest and neck. He trails the tip of his tongue back down Dean's clavicle, over the curve of his shoulder and Dean knows what's coming next, like a beautiful, fucked-out train wreck. 

When Cas's tongue touches just the edge of a handprint on his shoulder—just the side of a fingerprint, really—Dean's eyes roll back. Holy shit. It's like getting an existential blow job.

His hips rut down against Cas's, because he just can't help it, and Cas lets out a small, interested sound against his skin that should _not_ vibrate through Dean's entire body like that. The feel of a little whisper of teasing breath, against what should have been just a weirdly shaped scar, is like everything they've done before was just foreplay.

Maybe it was.

The gentle, sucking kiss against the middle of it, right into the center of the handprint, makes Dean's fingers clench tight enough on the bench seat that his nails dig right into Baby's backrest. "Cas," he whispers. "Fuck, man, what're you—"

Cas doesn't answer in words. Instead, his tongue traces the very edge of a thumb; why Dean knows it's a thumb, he couldn't say, but he does. He feels his whole body move into it, pressing his cock against Cas's thigh, his groin, the scrape of his zipper.

God, Dean couldn't possibly know he wanted this.

There's a change in their movements; a certain sort of intent starts to bleed in, like the difference between 'this feels amazing' and 'holy fuck, I need to come'. It's delirious. Dean is never going to be the same again and he doesn't care one bit.

Cas gives him a short break, nuzzling the raised edges for a brief few seconds—for what that’s worth, because it's still just as intense. Just more... lapping waves and less runaway train. Dean has almost gotten his breath back when Cas goes for it again. A wet, pink tongue laps gently at the bottom of the palm, licking carefully; then the tip starts a careful trace of the blank spaces between the raised markings.

Dean can't, he just can't. He falls forward, hand going from clutching the bench seat to braced on the foggy window, slipping slightly in the moisture. His hips are rolling hard, down and into the heat of Cas's body. _"Fuuuuck,"_ Dean whines. "Fuck. Jesus, Cas. I—"

He feels Cas smile against his shoulder, the dry curve of it nuzzling along the raised edges of the handprint. One of those long hands curls around his hip, riding up against him in a slow, dirty roll. The other slides through Dean’s fingers, set next to Cas's hip to keep Dean from crushing him—he wanted to keep touching Cas, finding out just what's good for him.

But right now, Dean can't, because it's all become so damned overwhelming and even working on breathing is an effort as the tip of Cas's tongue skirts between the fingers of the handprint again.

He knows just what's coming as Cas teasingly kisses the tip of each fingerprint, and the grind of their hips moving together becomes rhythmic. He knows.

But there's no way to stop it as Cas gives him one long, slow, perfect lick, all the way from the base of the palmprint to the furthest tip of a long, now-familiar finger—and then moans Dean’s name, softly, right against his skin.

The sound of Cas moaning shudders through Dean's body, and he no longer cares what's coming: he just wants it. Needs it. Possibly can't live without it. Cas pants against his skin, kisses his shoulder sloppily, and pushes his hips up with so much ferocity that Dean feels it down to his toes.

"Yes," Cas whispers, voice wrecked, deeper and rougher. "Yes, Dean."

Dean's pushing against the window, using it for leverage to grind and roll and thrust against Cas. With the other he threads his fingers into Cas's hair and holds him steady against his shoulder. Fuck it, that's the best shit he's ever had—and they're gonna do it like this—and he's gonna explode at any moment now... and he just _does not care._

Cas sucks against the center of the palmprint, his tongue a sweet, teasing flick on his mouthful like he's licking across Dean's cockhead rather than his shoulder. 

And that's it. Dean's done, he's gone.

When Dean comes, it's with Cas's hair clenched in the fingers of one hand, holding too tight, the condensation of the window wet and cool against his other palm. It's with Cas moving under him like he knows what he wants and he's gonna get it—their cocks sliding side by side, Cas's hot as a brand even through Dean's jeans and that dorky underwear. It's with a guy who's pretty undeniably a guy under him—a stranger who's not a stranger, and who might just be out of Dean's life by tomorrow. It’s with a sleek, clever tongue licking at Dean’s scar in a way that should not be sexy. 

But it's everything.

Dean's coming so hard that his breath locks in his throat on a cry of Cas's name that would have shaken Baby's solid frame.

Because _none_ of that is at all sufficient to explain how it feels—how trembling and coming on top of Cas, here, in Baby's back seat, feels like coming to a home that Dean's never had in his whole life.

The first thing he becomes aware of again is Cas's hot, shaky exhalation against his skin, skimming over the handprint. Dean shivers with an echo of pleasure. He slowly relaxes the fingers in Cas's hair: they feel stiff and clumsy but Dean can't take much more stimulation over that patch of skin. Beneath him, Cas is also relaxing slowly, also fighting down the last small set of shudders going through his body.

Their hands cling. Cas pulls him gently down until they're both mostly horizontal. Cas pets down his sides, his back, runs fingers through his hair. Dean, for the most part, is still stunned. His mind is mostly blank, but a good blank. Cas kisses his temple, his nose, his jaw. Dean tilts his head and pulls a sweet kiss from Cas's lips before letting his head tip downwards

Eventually, Cas clears his throat and Dean lifts his head from where it's resting against Cas's shoulder, his cheek enjoying the soft skin beneath it. "Are you okay?"

Dean realizes a split second later that he doesn't know if Cas came—except Dean does know, and it's got nothing to do with the warmth and wet he can feel against the front of his jeans, if he concentrates. He doesn't know how he does, or whether he pulled Cas down into that orgasm or Cas dragged him in, but he knows for fucking sure that they came together,

Cas's chuckle has that same tiny edge of hysteria that Dean feels going through his whole body. "I don't think there are words in any language to describe how 'okay' I am," he says, and the small, sleepy smile makes that not a lie.

Cas moves a leg, and Dean thinks he should probably get off him—Cas isn't a little guy, but Dean ain't light. But Cas is just sort of sticking his knee between Dean's, molding them together a little further, locking them together a little more. The hand he had on Dean's hip hasn't moved.

Dean nuzzles Cas's chin the way Cas was nuzzling his, and grins a little at the unfamiliar rasp of a bit of stubble against his lips. He kind of likes it. Then he chuckles back, shakily. "Jesus." He looks down at the mess between them. “Guess this, uh, means we’re not having the condom talk, huh?”

He just came in his pants like a teenager, and it was fucking amazing.

Cas makes a little amused noise. “All those safe sex lectures, down the drain.” He shakes his head sadly. “My gay forefathers are spinning in their graves.”

Dean laughs, a little hysterically. His safe sex lectures were mostly ‘don’t get her pregnant’ and ‘if it burns, go to the clinic.’

They cuddle, for lack of a better word, until the air in the car is chilled and the mess in their pants is kinda gross. Dean pulls away reluctantly, but Cas chases him with hands and a small sound of disappointment. 

"Hold on, I'm not falling asleep like this," he protests, laughing. He reaches under the driver's side for the wet wipes. Cas gets on board with the clean up after that, even if he makes faces at the cold wetness.

They get suddenly shy, though. Dry humping to a screaming orgasm is one thing, but cleaning up the come is apparently another. They deliberately look away while they take care of their own spunk, uncomfortable looks on their faces as they stick their hands down their own pants. 

Dean pulls his zipper back up about halfway, not even bothering with the button. Sleeping is much more comfortable without the button. When he looks back, Cas seems to have made a similar decision.

Dean runs a nervous hand through his hair and makes a decision because fuck it, his legs are still jelly, he feels fucking fantastic and Cas is the best thing since sliced bread. They wiggle their shirts back on, Cas slipping him a soft kiss as his head comes through the neck hole.

Dean smiles, feeling the low throb of connection still there.

They probably should go back inside the barn. But Dean's not sure he's ready to show this, whatever it is, to anyone else, and he doesn't know how he feels about spending the night alone, either.

"I, uh..." he clears his throat as he loses words. Somehow, this was a lot easier when they were skin to skin. "So. D'you... d'you maybe wanna..."

Dean's never asked someone to spend the night. Not in his entire damned life. Much less in Baby, out here, wrapped in her cool contours. Asking now feels like something real, and it clogs up his throat.

Cas smiles at him, softly, sweet. He's wearing Dean's flannel again. "Whatever you're going to ask," he says, "the answer's going to be 'yes.'"

"Okay," Dean says, hoarsely. Shit, he knows he doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve this weird, wonderful version of them. "Lie down?"

It's a tight, nearly uncomfortable fit with two guys stretched out in the back seat. They're overlapping, interlocking. It's everything Dean wanted it to be.

Cas makes a low, contented noise against Dean's throat, and wiggles just enough underneath him to haul the trench coat up from the floor mats and drape it over them both, tucking the edge underneath his hip. "There," he murmurs. "Perfect."

Dean doesn't remember falling asleep and he certainly doesn't remember waking up. 

So this unfamiliar, run-down barn that he's in, it's definitely a dream. He argues pointlessly with Uriel. It's hard to make someone who thinks you're not even sentient see your point of view anyway. Inias doesn’t seem like a bad guy, but Heaven is run by idiots if they really thought _Uriel_ was the guy to bring Dean in line.

Dean’s thoughts drift to Cas, but Uriel, the invasive asshole, catches on real quick, dangling a shining vial through his fingers that’s almost too bright to look at. The junkless wonder threatens and taunts and cajoles, but Dean knows bullshit when he sees it. 

So Dean does what he's always done: he mouths off.

Uriel leaves him with an ultimatum that sinks into the pit of his stomach. Fuck, no. Not Sam. Anyone but Sam.

Because Dean's genuinely not sure, between Sam and Cas, who he'd let live and who he'd choose to die.

He wakes with a start, and a scream in his throat that’s part fury, part fear. It’s still dark out, and dawn seems far, far away. Cas's hands are already petting him gently, shushing his strangled noises.

"It's okay," Cas murmurs. "I figured one of them would come to you, shhh."

It's not okay. It's the last fucking thing from okay. Dean hunches in, because it's either that or dry heave, and finds himself being tucked into strong arms, his head pulled into the crook of Cas's shoulder. Cas smells so human: a little sweaty, a little sleepy. 

Dean chokes out, "Uriel, he..."

"I remember him better, now," Cas says, a little soothingly. "He's never liked humans much. He... prefers everything to be in its place, and humans— _people_ —can be... disorderly." The finger he has tracing along Dean's cheek feels like a smile made tangible.

"Fucking understatement," Dean mutters. The feel of Cas underneath him is really comforting, though. He wonders for just a second what it'd feel like to have him on top of Dean—heavy and sleek. "Shit, Cas. He says he has your grace, what the hell do we do about that?"

They should’ve known that Uriel was the one to steal Cas’s grace out of the tree—though why the hell he bothered, Dean couldn’t begin to guess. Dean wasn’t scared when Uriel threatened to replace him. That was an empty threat. Dean’s delivered enough of them to recognize them.

The threat to Sam, though? That wasn’t empty. And the one to Cas? That was delivered with _glee_.

"You'll do what you have to," Cas says, serenely. "And so will I."

Dean kind of loves that answer, as much as he hates it. It's a Dean Winchester kind of answer. Cas runs his fingers through Dean's hair, tracing nonsense patterns in his scalp. It's tingly and soothing and makes Dean's eyelids heavy. 

He doesn't want to go back to sleep, he wants more of this: more of Cas heavy and warm under him, holding him just as tightly as Dean holds back. He wants endless nights like this, hour upon hour of feeling safe and cared for—knowing he probably doesn't deserve it, but also knowing that Cas, for reasons beyond Dean’s understanding, thinks he does.

But he drifts off again anyway.

Dean wakes up when he can no longer blot out the sun with his closed eyelids. Cas is having better luck: his head is tucked into the corner, chin propped up on Dean's scalp. Dean wants to stay there, but his bladder has other ideas. 

Cas grunts and makes an unhappy noise when Dean tries to move away. "Sorry," Dean whispers. "Go back to sleep."

Cas's eyes flutter open grumpily. "No. Where are we going?"

Dean laughs and drops his head. Fine. It's not like he doesn't want to wrap Cas up into that dorky trench coat of his and handcuff them together anyway.

Cas is stretching some kinks out of his back when Dean leaves to find Sam and Ruby. Except it’s just Sam. No Ruby. Because Sam has a crazy idea that he put into action without telling Dean. 

Great. 

Look, Dean’s not going to fake being sad that Ruby might be putting herself in harm’s way. He’s not even sure she’s _pretending_ to betray them to her fellow demons. But Dean _is_ pissed because Sam's plan is fucking dangerous for Cas. 

“You want us to, to give him up? Just like that?” he hisses. “You want me to tell them where he is?!”

Sam crosses his arms. “Ruby’ll come through.”

Yeah, they’re fucked.

Dean also knows there's something Cas isn't saying, and it's not so simple as that he’s already planning on surrendering himself to save them.

Cas wanders into the barn shortly after, rubbing his eyes and occasionally twisting to stretch his back. Sam snorts, "I recognize those motions.” He turns to Dean. “Please tell me you at least let him have the backseat,” he announces, like he and Dean weren’t staring daggers at each other a second ago. “Avoiding bonking your head on the steering wheel while sleeping is an advanced skill." Like it hasn’t even occurred to him to ask where or how they’d slept until just now.

Dean's eyes travel to Cas, who still looks grumpy that he's even aware of the hour. "Yeah, Sammy, I gave him the back seat."

Cas, who’s got Sam at his back, smirks.

Dean doesn't like Ruby. That's a fact. He doesn't bother to hide it, but he also can't deny that if this is gonna go down the way Sam thinks it will, she's putting herself in the hands of some pretty fucking evil people right about now. And the fact that Dean can say that is really saying something. 

The fact that they’re all trusting in a Winchester plan is also really saying something, but fuck it, they don’t have anything else right now.

The barn they're in is old, and from the still, musty smell in the air, it hasn't been used in so long that the hay bales have gone old and crackly. Good. The fewer human beings around for this shit, the better. 

Dean's hoping that by the end of the night, there'll be _no_ human beings around for it, because he, Sam and Cas will be in the Impala and booking it down the highway. (If Dean’s feeling nice, _maybe_ Ruby, too.)

He goes to lift his flask to his lips, ignoring Sam's judgmental stare, then thinks twice about it. And offers it to Cas.

Cas nods and takes a small sip, his eyes meeting Dean's over the top of it as those full, dry lips curve over the metal rim. Dean licks his own.

"Seriously, guys?" Sam mutters. "You're going to drink _now?_ "

"It's 2 AM somewhere," Dean answers, and takes his own sip from the flask. The edge of it is still warm from where Cas's mouth was on it.

The doors fly open with a blast. Uriel strides in first, and the asshole is fucking smirking. Inias doesn't look as thrilled to be there. Well, la-dee-dah for him.

Sam plays confused well: that’s the upside of a life hustling pool and faking authority figures, you learn to act pretty decently. 

Cas, however, nearly undoes Dean. When Dean turns to apologize for betraying him, the words choke a little in his mouth.

Even though Cas is in on the plan, the apology feels too real.

Cas's eyes never leave Dean's. "They gave you a choice that was never really a choice," he says, softly, his hand lifting, pinky reaching out to just barely brush against Dean's. It's a small gesture, and it probably looks almost accidental from most angles, but it jolts Dean's system. Connection, trust, affection, maybe something even deeper and sweeter—all in a single touch. "I know how their minds work. You let them kill me, or they kill Sam."

Cas turns to Inias and smiles, sadly. "I forgive you."

Uriel sneers. "The mud monkey betrayed you and you forgive _us_? You dare forgive us, you traitorous fool?"

Cas shakes his head. "There's no one else in this room that needs my forgiveness."

Dean's hand squeezes into a fist.

Inias's shoulders only twitch once before he strides forward, the edges of his stodgy suit flipping. Cas's mouth curves in a harsh, humorless smile, and he looks past Inias at Uriel. "Can't do it yourself?" he asks, softly, and there's something that sounds like a threat in his voice. He steps forward like Inias isn't even there.

Inias flinches. Just a little. "Castiel, don't make this difficult. Orders are orders."

Cas raises just one eyebrow. " _I'm_ making this difficult?" This time, his smile at Uriel is a challenge. "Or don't you trust yourself to make it quick like he would, _brother?_ "

Dean almost yanks Cas back. No, fuck, this is _not_ the plan—what is he doing? Where the hell is Ruby?

Dean would never admit this aloud to a living soul, but when Ruby appears in the middle of the barn, dripping blood and curled around herself, and with the whole nightmare demon entourage in tow, he could kiss her.

The fight really kicks in then and Dean loses track of Cas pretty quickly. But what flashes he does see is a warrior, unafraid of what's in front of him. Dean doesn’t even know what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, Uriel really _can_ break him like toothpicks—

Then Alastair zones in on Dean, taunts him with all of the things he can't bear to think about. And Dean can’t think of Cas at all, not when he’s facing down forty years of nightmares wearing a middle-aged pediatrician. Until finally—

“No!” Uriel howls, and that’s enough to distract them all. Dean didn’t think the angel could make a noise like that.

But when Dean turns, Cas has the shining vial in his hand. His eyes are on Dean’s when he breaks it open.

There’s grief in them. There’s _goodbye_ in them.

No. No, what is he, this wasn’t—

"Shut your eyes!" Cas growls, first, but as the white light fills his mouth, fills his bones and skin and starts to burn him up from within, it turns into a loud and desperate scream. "Shut your eyes— _shut your eyes!_ "

It sounds like pain.

Dean doesn’t want to look away. He doesn’t want to close his eyes. He doesn’t want this to be easy. But then the light is too bright and not even Dean can keep them open for the pain splitting through his temples. 

When he opens them again Alastair and Cas are both gone. There’s a smear of ash and darkness on the ground where Cas stood. That’s all that’s left. 

Uriel looks constipated. Inias is more inscrutable, but Dean could give a shit.

"Well, it looks like that's done," Dean says, the hoarseness of his voice more from grief than exertion. 

"This isn't over," Uriel growls.

"Oh, it looks over to me, junkless," Dean spits, staring at the spot Cas was when he exploded.

It's definitely over.

Why? Why did Cas do that?

It wasn't a surprise to Cas—none of that was a surprise to him. Dean doesn't know exactly what he did, but he _planned_ on it. All of that fucking talk about 'choice,' about letting him have his choices no matter how shitty they are. About him not going back with the angels, no matter what. He _knew_. 

Even as he lay under Dean and smiled and touched him like no-one else ever had before, he knew.

Dean could see the apology of it in Cas's face and the way he didn't look away from Dean's eyes before he was too bright to see anymore. Before he was gone—fractured, burnt up.

Sam tries to talk to him as they're driving out, but Dean doesn't answer. He can't. He barely hears the questions.

Dean’s little brother tries to talk to him again as they're settling into their motel for the night. Dean grunts something that maybe satisfies him, because Sam's only giving him worried eyes as Dean goes into the bathroom. But at least he doesn't follow him in.

After that, Sam backs off for a while—preoccupied with his own bullshit. Dean manages to soldier on. By the skin of his teeth, anyway. Carry on; smile until you mean it. He hasn’t gotten to the point yet where he can mean it.

Some days, he feels like a fool, mourning something only a few hours old. 

Other days, he has moments where it's like he can't catch his breath. Forty years in Hell are nothing compared to, maybe, falling in love and losing it in the same 24 hours.

Yeah, Dean's finally cottoned onto that. It took some time, but he's finally given in and looked right at that truth. 

Maybe it was just the beginning of something, but it was real. And now it’s gone.

Now _Cas_ is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tia:** Cas moves quickly, doesn't he? Well, he knew just what he wanted! Just wanted to reassure everyone that YES, this goes happily, and YES, more good times are coming for the boyos... eventually...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Please see end notes for warnings.** (It's small and brief but in case anyone has triggers, please look.)
> 
>  **Ami:** Uh... Sorry/Not sorry? Look it can't all be puppies and rainbows.

Dean dreams in small snippets. Bits of Hell, bits of his life, bits of things he wishes were real. Lately Hell has taken a more prominent role, but sometimes… sometimes he gets something nice.

"Hello, Dean."

It's a dream. Dean knows it, but he just doesn't care. It’s still Cas, whole and complete in front of him.

"Hey, Cas," he says, softly. He reaches out. Cas reaches back, and their fingertips brush. "How you doing, buddy?"

'Buddy.' What the fuck, Dean.

But Cas just smiles, a little. "I'm okay," he says, and it sounds like he means it. "How are you?"

Dean knows Cas is dead. He should be able to dream of him however he wants. But even though Dean knows none of this is real, he still feels like there's something standing between them. He has to shove his arm through it, even to get this little touch of their fingertips—a thick wall of nothing. Cas is stretching back for him, and he can't make it any further than this. Fucking metaphors. Dean reaches harder, hooks the tip of a finger through Cas's.

Even though the touch is so tiny, and this is just a dream, he'll take it. He'll take whatever he can get.

"Not so hot," he admits—here, where he can't admit it anywhere else. "Shit, Cas. Why do I miss you so bad?"

Cas smiles, a little brittle. "We are a part of each other, I think. I would miss any piece of me I was separated from."

Dean's chest rattles. He pushes a bit more; their fingers tangle further. "I gotta say… that's a little intense." He pauses. "Still, I think maybe I would have married you."

Well, holy shit, dream brain is a real monster, isn't it? Dean hadn't even been aware of that.

Cas blinks, but then he laughs, not much more than a happy huff. His smile is sly and warm, and not mocking at all. "That is a lovely compliment,” he teases, but he looks so happy. “I'll be sure to remind you of it in the future."

They don't have a future. Dean knows this. But while he's asleep, here, Cas's smile is small and genuine and the feel of a smooth fingertip stroking against his feels real enough. Here, before he has to open his eyes to a world where he knows how he failed, he lets himself believe it.

And if it's tears crusted on his eyelashes and not just sleep when Dean wakes up the next morning, no-one will ever know.

When he looks into the mirror the next morning and runs his fingers over the edges of the handprint on his skin, he thinks with a sick jolt that it might be fading.

Not healing. Because that's not what this is.

"Hey," Sam says casually, passing Dean as they exchange spots—Sam to the bathroom, Dean to his duffle and clothes. "That's looking better!" He points to the handprint on Dean's shoulder and it takes everything inside Dean to shrug the comment off.

Sam goes to poke at it. It's not a threatening gesture at all; in fact it's the most brotherly thing Sam's done in a while.

Dean doesn't intend to grab and twist Sam’s wrist. It just happens: one moment, Sam’s finger is jabbing towards Dean’s shoulder, and the next, Dean’s behind his little brother. He jolts to a stop just shy of hauling the whole arm up behind Sam's back.

"Woah. Hey! Okay!" Sam kicks out at him. Dean releases his hand instantly and Sam raises both of them in mock surrender. "Touchy. Man, I thought you'd be in a better mood today, you didn't have any nightmares last night."

Dean tenses further, because that just touches on a whole other nerve he's not in the mood to deal with.

“Let’s get to work,” he says, shortly.

They're hunting nonstop, now. Dean knows he's been pushing them, even harder than he usually does. He hunts hard; he sleeps harder, in fits and jerks, and, once, when Sam shakes him awake out of one of his dreams about Cas, he almost takes Sam's hand off.

As the weeks turn into months, the dreams start coming fewer, farther between. They're still so damned clear when they happen, but they happen less and less.

Cas tells him, "When you were in Hell... they didn't break you, Dean. They couldn't break you. Believe me... I'd know." Sometimes, Cas can reach in further; today, he can touch Dean's shoulder. It's through clothes, but the mark zings him down to his toes. Dean barely manages to keep on his feet.

Cas's smile curves.

"Were you always so smug, or did you have to wake up human to do that?" Dean growls.

"You've met my brothers," Cas retorts, dryly. "You tell me." Then he hesitates. "I..." and he looks away into the distance. For the first time in Dean's memory, Cas looks away from him, not towards him. "I..."

"What?" Dean asks. "What is it?"

Cas breathes out a long, slow breath, and looks down at where his fingers brush Dean's shoulder. "The angels aren't my brothers. Not really. I've seen what brotherhood really is. _Jimmy_ was my brother."

Jimmy. Dean doesn't like thinking about Jimmy. Dean had been the one to tell him. He'd specifically told Sammy to stay away, that Dean was going to handle it. He’s had to tell people their loved ones were dead before, but it wasn’t like this: this was the worst phone call that Dean ever had to make.

Jimmy was still sobbing—Dean’s never heard a man sob like that, like it’s tearing him up deep inside—when he hung up.

After, Dean got blind stinking drunk, and slept it off in Baby’s front seat because sleeping in the back seat was still too hard, some days. He met back up with Sam while the hangover was still holding on. Sam, thankfully, didn’t say a word.

Cas seems to know exactly what he's thinking. "How is he?"

Dean shakes his head. "Mad. Sad. All of the above, none of it." He shrugs. "Upset there's no body."

Cas's touch deepens without him moving—seriously, this dreamscape shit is like the wild wild west of rule-breaking. Comfort is radiating from it: somehow, Dean can feel Cas brush past his face and shoulders, and it's ephemeral but tangible. It's the warmest non-hug he's ever had. Cas's eyes go a bit bluer. "I'm working on it."

Dean has no idea what that means, but he closes his eyes and holds on.

It's the last time he sees Cas. But whatever Cas meant—whatever Dean’s brain was trying to tell him—the nightmares are better, too.

Not gone—they'll probably never be gone. But Hell isn't occupying as much space in his noggin anymore.

The edges of the handprint are flat, now. Once, insanely, Dean thinks of scratching at the edges of it, getting it all scarred up again. But he knows what Sam would do if the blood started peeking through his shirt and jacket.

And Dean thinks of the way Cas would look at him for hurting himself like that—dark-eyed, disappointed.

He puts his fingertips to it and says, softly, into the mirror, "Yeah. I hear you. Okay."

Sam's been acting weirder than usual, taking whispery phone calls in the bathroom like he doesn't want Dean to overhear. Dean considers it a good sign that he's noticing that kind of thing again. There's about a fifty-fifty chance that Sam's talking about him. He knows he hasn't been checked into reality right, lately.

"Found a job," Sam tells him, looking up from his perch on the edge of the sofa. "Bedford, Iowa. Guy beat his wife's brains out with a meat tenderizer."

Dean grunts, still not fully awake. Sam is unaccountably perky in the mornings and Dean often wonders where he went wrong.

"And get this," Sam goes on. "Third local inside two months to gank his wife. No priors on any of 'em, all happily married."

Yep, it's a case alright. Dean really doesn't want to deal with what will probably be broken and and destroyed human beings, having lived past the death of their loved ones. He's sure they'll find out that none of them were in control or something equally sad like that. It makes his chest ache.

"Well?" Sam prods him.

"Yeah, yeah." Dean finally pushes the blankets away. "We definitely got a case."

The first husband says that he loved his wife, and that he knew exactly what he was doing. That he's guilty. That means he probably is.

Doesn't make Dean feel any less shitty about it. Hell, if anything, that probably makes it worse. It's almost a relief when Sam digs out the kicker that the guy's spent 9 big Gs for some 'adult entertainment' at a nudie bar.

Until the guy says, "She came right up to me. And she was just... perfect. Everything I wanted."

Dean's shoulder burns, and he only just barely keeps himself from putting his fingers on it.

It's not the same. (Is it?) He knows that feeling a little too well. (He really wishes he didn't.)

And then the poor spelled schmoe whispers, "She said—Jasmine said—we would be together, forever, if... if only Vicky was..." and Dean's not sure which of them, the guy or him, feels more sick about it.

Dean vaguely recognizes that Sam's got his flirt on with the Medical Examiner; Dean's just kind of happy that she's not Ruby. Sam gives him a strange look back in the car, but says nothing.

At the hospital, the real pattern emerges: strippers.

Every one of those guys has something to say about a magical _stripper._

The descriptions of the ladies are perfectly vague, but full of the kinds of adjectives someone in love might use. ‘Perfect.’ ‘Amazing.’ ‘Everything they ever wanted.’

Dean feels sick. It's not the same, it can't be the same. His shoulder itches and he scowls down at the paperwork.

Sam goes quiet and Dean looks up, waiting.

"…well?" Sam finally asks.

"Well, what?" God, Dean could live without the games.

"Strippers?" Sam says, with bright eyes. He’s smiling like he’s inviting Dean to share the joke. "Isn't this, like, on your bucket list of hunts?"

Dean's stomach rolls. The idea of even enjoying it makes him feel kind of sick.

"Yeah, sure, Sammy," he answers. "Let's go!"

He thinks he sounds pretty convincing, but now Sam just looks worried. "That's it? That's all?" He waves his hands. "I thought you'd be saying something like, 'Finally!' or 'Strippers, Sammy! Strippers!'" He looks closer. "Seriously, Dean, are you alright? You haven't... um. Well, have you?"

Dean has no damned idea what he's talking about. Except maybe he does. He flashes a smile that's all teeth. "No time like the present, right? Let's get our honey wagon on!"

(Ordinarily, he'd think that was a pretty clever name for a titty bar. It still is; the manager's just as unhelpful as Dean expected, though. Guys murdering their wives isn't bad for his business.)

Fortunately, Sam and Bobby are smarter than anyone.

"A siren?" Dean asks, skeptically. "Like... Greek myth, the Odyssey?" He was pretty sure those were supposed to be girls that sat on rocks in the ocean and made people jump into the sea. Before they, y'know. Ate 'em.

They don't get much sorted beyond that, though. Bobby's still looking for answers, so Dean and Sam question as many people as possible. But after that, they mostly end up back at the motel, with Sam on WiFi and Dean flipping through channels. Waiting. When another victim shows up, Sam heads out alone. Dean is more than happy for some peace and quiet.

Sam's other phone catches his eye, sitting just inside his duffel, and it takes seconds to confirm that the bulk of the calls are to Ruby. Great. Dean has no idea what to do with that.

It starts getting stickier when Sam comes back with the news that there was a _real_ Fed at the hospital. It’s not the first time it’s happened, won’t be the last—it’s why Bobby knows how to scare the shit out of real agents—but the timing’s never good.

Agent Nick Monroe throws both of them, but since Sam seems to be simpatico with the ME, Dean takes the hit. The dude isn't bad, especially not for the Feeb. Good taste in music, cars and other trivia. But he's far too into the girls at the Honey Wagon than Dean really needs or wants at the moment. And there’s just… something.

Something about him just falls flat for Dean. It's like Agent Monroe's trying too hard to impress him. Hell, maybe Bobby put too much of the fear of God into him.

Even when Monroe compliments Baby—because hell yeah, she's a beauty—there's just... Dean doesn't know. The next time it's time to take an interview, Dean tells Sam it's his turn to babysit the FBI.

ME lady's clearly disappointed it's not Dean's little brother who comes to check up on her this time, but Dean's still got the trick with the eyelashes down. It takes a little bit of time, and more than a little of the stupid act—'cause girls like her, they just love to teach dumb boys like him what's for—to get her to bring him to the shelves.

But of course the blood that they need for evidence, the blood with that oxy-something, pregnancy-bonding-hormoney-thingie (shit, maybe he _should_ have let Sam take this one) is gone.

Fuck, of course it is.

When his phone rings, though, Sam sounds weirdly excited? "Dean, Nick—he's had a breakthrough in the case!"

'Nick?' What the hell? Dean’s much more likely to call someone by their first name than Sam is.

Sam tells Dean he'll fill him in back at their room, and hangs up. There's hooting in the background that cuts off when the call does. Okay then.

Dean and the ME back-and-forth it a little, but the truth is, they have nothing and it's bugfuck annoying. Dean stomps back to their motel room to do a little more research, and to verbally encourage Bobby to stop dragging his ass.

The silence from Bobby's side of the phone is unnerving. "Listen, Dean, I love you like a son, but you ever speak to me like that again and I'm gonna reconsider my stance on whooping loved ones' asses."

"You have a stance?"

"Only when possessed."

Dean purses his lips. Not a bad stance.

Sam slams into the room at that point babbling about hyacinths and the ME being suspicious. They’ve got nothing else, and ordinarily Dean'd be all for it, but there's a fever brightness to Sam's eyes that worries him.

"It's a bit thin," Dean says.

Sam's shoulders drop and his frown takes over his face. "Are you kidding me? Her husband just dropped dead two months ago!"

Dean shrugs. "It happens?"

Sam's eyes almost bulge. "It happens? Heart attacks just happen?"

"Yeah, they do.” Dean frowns at Sam. “Her husband was like... old." He was. Dean caught the picture in her wallet. “She probably wore him out or something.”

Something's weird. Of the two of them, Sam isn't the one that goes leaping for conclusions across burning rope bridges. That's Dean's job, and Dean doesn't like being the ones with the books and the clear eyes.

Sam, though, almost looks relieved when he drops into the sofa and crosses his arms. "You slept with her." He lets out a deep sigh. "Oh, thank God. I was getting really worried, Dean. I mean, it's not good that you... but..." his face does this weird twist. "Nick said that you just needed space, to get back into your paces, but seriously, Dean, a siren?" He leans forward. "We can work with this, though! What did she want from you?"

Nick again? Also, what the—shit, the idea of sleeping with a lady who just lost her husband turns Dean’s stomach. He understands what that loss feels like just a little too well, and he's felt it for long enough now that the realization doesn't even freak him out anymore.

How Sam's acting, though, that does.

"Dude!" Dean stares. "I definitely did not fucking sleep with her, what's wrong with you?"

"Come on, Dean," Sam says, not even listening to him. "It's hardly the worst thing you've ever done."

Motherfucker. Is he comparing banging a widow of two months to _Hell_? Dean's been really patient and possibly just a little absent, but he's reaching a line. "I. Did not. Sleep. With her."

Sam laughs in his face and Dean can feel his blood pressure really start to rise. "Look,” Sam says so kindly that the hair rises on the back of Dean’s neck. “Her venom must be working really hard in you. Just. Don't do anything. Let me take care of it." Sam turns on his heel, and starts to leave the room.

"Dammit Sammy, there’s no venom, and—look, I feel fine!" Dean slaps the top of the table.

Sam freezes and turns back to him, face incredulous. "You feel _fine?_ Dean, you haven't been fine in months. Maybe since Hell! I thought you were starting to deal with it for a while, but then you backslid so hard I genuinely worried about your liver."

The irony is that Dean isn't really drinking all that much. It made the good dreams distorted and wobbly and he wanted every second of dream!Cas that he could get.

"Look, she's got you a little under her spell, I get it." Sam's sympathy is almost as bad as his condescension, because it seems like that sympathy could be real. "Just... hang tight, okay? She can't have gotten her venom that deep into you, because—well, anyway."

Hang tight? Dean stares at him. "Sam, I ain't gonna hang tight—look, she ain't the siren—"

"And I know you really believe that!" Sam tells him, soothingly. "Nick and I, we'll take care of it. You'll feel better once the siren's dead. Then we'll talk—did you know, Nick’s got a degree in clinical psychology? Maybe he can help. I don't think you've been dealing well." Sam's eyes are big and gooey. "We can't go on like this, Dean. You're going to get yourself killed."

On the inside, Dean knows that might be a little bit true... but there’s Nick, again. And again. When did some wet-behind-the-ears FBI suit become the guy that Sam listens to? It's almost like... like...

Shit.

At this point Dean surrenders—or, at least, lets Sam believe that he has. God only knows what Sam might be capable of in this state. Once Sam is out of the room, though, he calls Bobby right away. Warns him about Sam, and they make a tentative plan about how to handle it.

Then Dean calls the ME and warns her, too. It's not so easy as saying 'my baby brother is drugged up with happy juice, don't trust him, and do go to a stripper place for safety,' but he makes it work.

All of the prep work in the world is no substitution for pure dumb bad luck, though. Dean stops to piss, and comes back out of the bathroom to Sammy and 'Nick Monroe.’ Shit.

Nick gives him a fun speech, but to be honest, Dean doesn't listen to it very much. He gets just enough to taunt back, to delay things until Bobby can get there. Shit, where’re they gonna get the blood from someone under the siren’s spell? The asshole stole it out of the ME’s office for a reason, and probably not just because of the hormone-bondy evidence. Fuck.

"You're kind of a loser, you know?" Dean jeers. "Only skeevy assholes need to drug people to get off."

Nick catches him, squirts venom right into his mouth. It’s one of the most disgusting things that’s ever happened to Dean, but he can’t think of that right now: it actually burns briefly, going down his throat. It hurts up until a haze starts to fall over his brain.

Dean's suddenly overcome with the need to please Nick. No matter the cost, no matter what. He's already ignoring the dull pain that’s starting to throb in his left shoulder; it's not important. And Sam, Sam’s just in the way.

"So I know you two have a lot you wanna get off your chests." Nick sits down on a nearby chair. "So why don't you discuss it? And whoever survives can be with me forever."

Dean snarls out the first accusation: “Well, I don't know when it happened. Maybe when I was in Hell. Maybe when I was staring right at you. But the Sam I knew, he's gone.” Everything is different and Dean didn’t ask for any of it. Didn’t need any of it (only maybe he did, but that voice is muffled, finally muffled).

Dean is tired of all of it. He says as much to Sam’s scoff. “And it's not the demon blood or the psychic crap. It's the little stuff. The lies. The secrets.”

They get into it, about Ruby and the phone calls, Sam’s shady and secretive actions, until finally Sam hits back with his own list of accusations.

Sam starts in on a tirade about Dean's whiny ass feeling sorry for himself, and the frustration Sam has with how he’s gotten withdrawn and moody. Dean’s just started to get really pissed-off—what the hell does Nick want with Sam anyway? Just listen to him whine; Dean’s a much better choice—when something happens.

Rather than the escalating pain in his shoulder that he was ignoring, sweetness wraps around him, radiating from his shoulder outwards. A tingling warmth covers him like a blanket and Dean's head _hurts_ as the venom—it must have been the venom—starts getting seared out of his brain, leaving the world a lot less fuzzy and no less ugly.

Dean catches a harsh breath, steadying himself against how dizzy he suddenly is. Sam hasn't noticed and Nick looks too enraptured by their fight to give Dean much thought, yet.

Sam isn't wrong about what he’s saying—Dean isn't on board with what Sam's been doing with Ruby, because using a demon to hunt down a bigger, badder demon seems like a recipe for being stabbed between the shoulder blades. And that has nothing to do with the fact that since he first went to Hell, Dean's entire damned world has changed and changed and changed again.

The warmth wrapping around him hurts more and more, but the pain is like lancing a boil. And it’s so familiar—like a shy smile, like a chin resting on his shoulder. Dean stumbles back at the spin in his head, the pain in his chest. His whole body is yelling _Cas? Cas?!_

But of course it can't be.

Dean doesn't know what breaks him out of the siren spell, since he can still taste the venom in his mouth—he gags. Sam's on him a flash later. Sam isn't a better hunter than him, but he’s fast, and just as used to taking advantage of a moment of weakness as Dean is.

“You’re holding me back!” Sam yells, and his eyes are all fury and greed.

But if Dean's the one holding him back, like Sammy says—then he'll keep holding him back. Because fuck this apocalypse crap anyway, big brothers are supposed to keep their little brothers from doing stupid shit that might damn their souls. Dean knows exactly what that's like.

Sam's on top of him, pinning him, hands reaching for his throat, howling something about "the brother I deserve." Dean kicks out with both legs, his foot jamming hard on Sam's hip and sending him flying into the bed. Dean's joints are loose and easy, and his head is clear as he gets back to his feet. His shoulder pulses, but it doesn’t hurt anymore.

He turns towards Nick, and charges.

Nick is, to say the least, surprised at Dean's change in focus. Well, good, because that asshole deserves a couple of nose-crunching punches if Dean has any say in the matter.

Dean sees the shadow out of the corner of his eye moving, rising, the messy mop of hair clearly making it Sam. He rolls out of the way just in time to avoid an axe to the melon.

Ironically, Nick doesn't.

Even with that, he's still _alive,_ the asshole—the shit it takes to kill some creepy-crawlies just floors Dean, sometimes—but he's moving a helluva a lot slower.

Which means when Bobby bursts in and stabs _Sam_ in the shoulder to get the blood with the venom in it, he doesn't have to do much more than throw the knife towards the ground where Nick is. Bing bang boom. It's done.

Sam collapses to his knees like a doll with his strings cut. He's fine: he’s breathing, and his eyes are open. It just looks like the worst instant hangover.

Dean knows the feeling. He collapses to the floor himself, finding the nearest bed frame to lean against while catching his breath. "Bobby,” he wheezes, “Anyone ever tell you you're beautiful?"

"I'll be sure to write it in my diary." Bobby snipes, before finding his own seat near the table. He lets out a long breath and looks back and forth between them. "Now, either of you two wanna tell me what the hell is going on?"

It's almost insulting how unsurprised Bobby is... though he did find in the lore how to kill the thing, so he must've known a little more about sirens than they do.

The questions he's asking Sam are making Sam red in the face, though.

"Didn't know you swung that way, boy," Bobby says, and he's really damned calm about it. "I mean, s'fine, just, I wouldn't'a bothered with the girlie talk if I'd'a known."

Sam sputters. "What—no, Bobby, that's not—it wasn't like that! Not that there's anything—but I'm not—It was... He was... It was like he made himself this... perfect..." His eyes slide to Dean and slide away. "...Partner."

"Yeah, that's the word they use for it," Bobby agrees, and Sam's going so red, he's nearly purple.

But Dean hears what Sam didn't let himself finish: "The perfect brother."

Bobby interrupts Sam's spluttering. "Well, musta been something like that,” he points out, looking at “'Cause Dean here kept his head. Right?"

Dean shrugs. "Not really? He got me, too." Honestly, the venom had been so complete he'd forgotten that he had a boot knife right at his fingertips.

That, or Nick had wanted it to be more of a show. Again: _asshole_.

Sam twists enough to look at him incredulously. "You sucker-punched me, kicked me once… and then went right to him and started whaling on him! That's 'he got me, too?'" Sam makes quotation marks with his fingers.

Cas used to do that.

Dean looks away. "Look, the venom was only in my system for like thirty seconds. Maybe it takes a minute to really kick in?"

This time both Bobby and Sam stare at him. More than anything, Dean wants to divert their attention away; hell, he wants to tease Sam about his bad taste in men. But he can't.

Most of the time, Dean's pretty okay with being a hypocrite for the right reason, but for this, he can’t. He's barely holding on, really; this whole case has messed with his already messy head and he just wants a quiet and dark place to sulk. And then maybe fall asleep. He’s stopped hoping for dreams; he hasn’t seen Cas in his for weeks.

Sam leaves him be, mostly—licking his own wounds, Dean would guess. Probably a little raw. Well, Dean's not feeling great, either.

He doesn't expect Sam to pipe up in the darkness of their shared motel room before he dozes off, though.

"Dean?" his little brother says, sounding... young. "You know I didn't mean it, right? Any of it."

Dean isn't sure about that, these days, what with all the bullshit with Ruby and Lilith. Maybe he really is holding Sam back.

Because when Sam said that Dean hasn't been the same since Hell, he's right. But not in the way Sam thinks.

"Sure," he says, quietly. "Yeah, I know."

Because what else is he supposed to say?

"Is it Hell?" Sam says, into the darkness. "Is it... you won't tell me. You just... I can't say I get it, but... Dean, you have to—"

It isn't Hell, and Dean doesn't "have to" anything. He can't say it; he won't. He touches his shoulder under the covers.

"I'm fine, Sammy," he says.

They both know it's a lie.

But at least it's a familiar one.

Sleep comes difficult to both of them and morning dawns early and painful. When they meet up with Bobby that next day, he gives Dean an especially long look over their goodbye sodas, but Dean just lets it roll over him.

He and Sam remain tense with each other for days. Dean can't help some of his snappy comebacks, but they don’t make him feel like he’s won, either. All of it just feeds into his own misery.

Some moments he thinks it's all true, that he deserves everything that’s happened to him. He thinks he left himself behind somewhere, and there’s nothing left but the hunt. And some moments he realizes he's got a problem, but he's not sure what to do about it.

Eventually he and Sam agree on a tentative truce, leaving the big topics behind. But it only serves to emphasize the other problems they're having.

Because by ‘truce,’ Dean means that Sam continues to be secretive, throwing a constant mix of resentful and worried looks at Dean. And Dean continues to pine away like a combination between a sad teenager and a fucking war widow. It's absurd.

Then a miracle happens in a place named Greybull, Wyoming. Sam tells him about it over food. Dean’s been trying to eat more regularly, or at least when he’s in front of Sam. It’s still not quite the number of calories Dean used to take down, but it has helped some of his zombie-like feelings. The physical ones, anyway.

The thing about all of this, about Cas, about _losing_ Cas, is that the small things that shouldn’t hit hard still manage to take Dean’s breath away. A man getting shot at point blank range in the chest and surviving is one of those things.

It’s not that the guy lived (possibly through really dumb means like a demon deal). It’s that he has family: loved ones.

First, Dean’s angry: why do scumbags get the pass but not the people Dean cares about? And then it’s back to that blank, numb feeling that he alternates between desperately wanting to escape from, and wanting to dive into and never get out of.

After a painful encounter with Alastair, and a possible concussion, they come up with an explanation—a fucking seal, again; the dead aren’t dying because the town reaper is dead. It gets them a witness, and a plan.

And if Dean decides maybe being mostly dead might not be so bad, that it might even give him a break from this feeling inside of him? Then that’s no one’s business but his own.

When Pamela gets there to help them with this new brand of fucking insanity—becoming ghosts is really a new low for them—she gives him one long look, but she doesn't say anything about what must be going through his noggin. Dean breathes a sigh of relief. He’s not exactly excited to be drawn right back into all of this apocalypse bullshit, but this is the family business, and it’s all he’s got left.

Once they’re living that Casper life—Dean’s not feeling up to the ‘living’ pun right this second—they see the second reaper from the street, and catch up to her inside the boy’s house. She’s got straight, black, chin-length hair and a knowing glint in her eye.

(Dean hates those knowing glints.)

She knows him. Of course she knows him. That’s the kind of life Dean lives now. They’ve apparently met before, but Dean doesn't remember her; then she kisses him, and he pushes her away with an angry shudder. Fucking supernatural creatures and their consent issues. He’s so mad it takes him a few seconds to realize she’s no longer a stranger.

That doesn’t actually make it better.

Tessa, the pretty reaper who almost took Dean all the way back when, looks at him with a soft sympathy that's hard to stomach. He wonders if she can see all his scars—the ones not on his skin. When her eyes drop to his shoulder, he knows she can.

"So," she says, and then shakes her head. "I don't want any part of this angel-demon dance off. I just want to do my job."

Sam frowns. "Angels? There's no angels here.” He looks around. “Just demons."

Tessa meets Dean's eyes, and says nothing. She's still saying nothing when Sam leaves to go talk the dead kid into an impossible bargain.

Dean looks away, refusing to meet her eyes. Instead, he decides to see if he can Swayze the curtains. (He can’t.)

They talk a little bit about their first meeting in the hospital. Dean confesses the absolute hell of knowing his father hadn't just died for him, but made a deal. "I dunno, for a while I wished I'd gone with you," he admits. But then he'd never have saved Sam. He’d never have met Cas. And even as much as he misses the guy like a lost limb, he wouldn't give any of that up for anything. "I guess things are different now."

"What?" Tessa's eyes flick to his shoulder again. "That angel on your shoulder?"

Dean snorts, finally turning back to her. "Inias has informed me that he is in no way perched anywhere near me, and that I shouldn't expect him to save me any time I decide to do 'stupid pet tricks.’" Okay, that last bit had been Uriel. It still applies, though, since Inias didn’t really dispute it either.

Tessa's head tilts in confusion, her brow furrowing slightly. "No. There's definitely an angel on your shoulder, Dean." She reaches out and brushes his sleeve with the tips of her fingers.

Dean jumps away as if burned. At this point, the handprint is flat and quiet and no longer raw. It’s just a reminder. It might not be much. But it’s still _his,_ and not anyone else's.

Tessa drops her hand away and stares. "You know, reapers can see a lot more than you think. We can see souls, and yours is…" she trails off briefly. "Complete. In a very odd way."

"What the hell does that mean?" Dean asks.

Tessa frowns at him. "Don't you know? You've—"

Sam's feet on the stairs makes them both look up. He's got the ghost kid by his side.

Looks like therapy time is over—thank God. Time to get back to being ghosty.

It's almost kind of fun. It's different.

And then Alastair shows up, armed and ready, and ouch, _ouch._ The demon dick can’t kill their ghosty selves unless he gets to their bodies, but Jesus fucking Christ, Dean has a little more sympathy now for everyone he's ever shot with rock salt.

And even more sympathy for every ghost who's ever been mad enough to make something crash. 'Cause pulling that chandelier down on that white-eyed dick is one of the most satisfying things Dean's ever done. Tessa’s free of the reaper trap. They’re on the home stretch now. Seal saved, hell yeah.

At least until Alastair gets free and comes after him. And he does not look like he gives two shits about a seal, about Tessa, or the fact that Dean’s technically already dead.

Dean’s already been dead in this demon’s hands. And his skin burns and burns to think about it.

But then there’s a glorious flash of light, and Dean forgets all about that. All about pain, all about thirty years on the rack and ten behind the lash.

The light is blue-white, and it’s beautiful. It makes his eyes burn and sting. It takes Alastair screaming. It’s so _familiar_.

When Dean whirls around, his heart in his throat, and sees _Inias_ looking so damned blandly at him, and it's not... not…

It’s not. Dean’s gut drops from where he hadn’t even realized it had risen.

It's crippling.

Because Cas is gone, and he’s not coming back. Dean knows that. That same fucking blue light that Inias just threw easy as anything at Alastair? Killed him.

Dean's hands curl into fists. Before he can say any of the things on the tip of his tongue, Tessa comes back and asks for his help.

This task’s almost as bad as the last one. But there’s something a little bit good about it. Like lancing a boil.

Maybe.

"We're all scared," Dean tells the wisp of a memory of a pretty great kid. "That's the big secret. We're all scared."

And that ain't the half of it. This half-numb feeling, like he's lost a limb, is gonna get him killed; Dean knows it, and he can't quite find it in himself to care. He even tells the kid he sees it being a short run, but the kid is already moving on.

Dean's expecting Tessa to leave pretty quickly after that, but she pauses, hesitating. She lays a lot of home truths on him—shit he already knows, deep down, all about how they all lie to themselves. But what gives him pause is the last thing that she tells him.

"I'm pretty sure, deep down, that you know something nasty's coming down the road." She lifts her hand, hovers it just over Dean's shoulder. He doesn’t flinch, this time. "Normally I'd say there's no such thing as miracles, Dean, but... you know? I think you may just have one left in you, after all."

Dean doesn't like it when people give him hope—not like that, not that cryptic supernatural bullshit.

That becomes really fucking abundantly clear when he sits up, alive and breathing, and sees the blood soaking the edge of Pam's shirt, pouring down onto her pants, making splotchy puddles along her thighs.

He tries to believe it when he tells her, "You're going to a better place." For her sake. For all their sakes.

But maybe Dean's not as good a liar as he thought, because Pamela turns. There's something that's almost a laugh curving her lips when she says, "You're lying."

Dean didn't realize he was.

She dies in front of them, cursing their names. Dean can't even blame her for that.

(They've lost so many. Too many. And his shoulder prickles and burns.)

By the next time Sam brings up a job from Ruby, Dean is still working up a pissy head of steam about the unfairness of it all, and the bullshit that is his life. There’s a hole in his chest that opens up, sometimes, if he thinks about for too long.

"Fine. Whatever." He grips the Impala’s wheel harder and watches his knuckles whiten. Today, Dean's not up for anything more energetic than ‘terse.’

But that’s not good enough for Sam, oh, no, not today. He and Sam bicker about… something. About bullshit. Except what they’re really arguing about is giving a shit, and why Dean, these days, seems to just… not. Sure, Sam does, but he only seems to give a damn about dumb, _reckless_ shit. Like Ruby. Not about the fact that Pamela’s dead, and just for one crappy seal.

They're barely in the motel room five seconds when Uriel and Inias show up.

Great. The day’s getting better and better.

The conversation starts out shitty, with a lot of posturing from Uriel about how Dean should be grateful he was taken out of one hellhole and deposited into another. It leaves nothing but a sour taste in Dean’s mouth. He’s not scared of them, anymore. He’s not scared of anything.

"Oh, fuck all of you," Dean spits. "Not like any of you are the ones who _actually_ succeeded in getting me outta the hot box.” He smiles, nasty. “And I bet that galls you, too."

Uriel's fist flexes and yeah, that definitely pisses the guy off. Next to Dean, Sam throws him a surprised look. Yeah, Dean hasn't really talked about all the things Cas told him. Some of it is too painful to even start to pick apart. Besides, it’s not like Dean can even explain how he knows, just knows, that a thirty-something-year-old religious studies professor from Illinois is the one who rescued him from Hell. Even though the timing of it makes no fucking sense at all.

Dean didn’t need Uriel’s reaction to confirm it. He’s kind of expecting the asshole to hit him. Bring it on. Dean doesn’t care that angels are being murdered. He doesn’t even really care about Alastair, not anymore. Out of sight, out of mind. Dean’s not shocked they can’t break the demon. What’s Inias gonna do to Hell’s best torturer, hide behind Uriel at him?

But Uriel smiles. He actually smiles, and all of Dean’s goosebumps stand up and say hello.

That’s when the conversation… takes a turn.

"Wait." Sam says, eyes suddenly wider and younger. He turns to look at Dean. "Alastair's _student_?"

Inias says, "Dean, you have to do this." He sounds like he might even believe it. Dean doesn't give a shit what Inias does or doesn’t believe.

"No," he spits back. Just the thought of it, the blade, the lash, sends pain echoing behind his eyeballs, through his spine. "You can't ask me to do that. And fuck you, you can't make me do it."

Uriel smiles, and Dean knows he's stepped wrong. "I really hoped you'd say that."

Then they're elsewhere, _otherwhere_ , and Dean's gut twists with the sudden change in scenery. He thinks he's going to throw up, his body not able to figure out what happened, what changed. He might pass out.

It might have nothing to do with the teleportation.

In front of him, Alastair grins into Dean’s face, chained in the middle of a devil's trap. Inias gives him a proud walkthrough of all the protections put in place.

In another time and place Dean might find it fascinating. He could always use a stronger devil's trap.

But times being what they are, Dean scoffs at it and walks out of the makeshift torture dungeon and into the dark outer room. He even turns his back to Alastair to do it. Because yeah, Dean sometimes _is_ a reckless, suicidal sonofabitch.

"Where are you going?" Inias asks, popping back up right in front of him. Dean is getting really tired of that.

"Hitchin’ it back to Cheyenne," Dean makes a thumbs up sign to demonstrate. "Thank you very much."

Even Inias seems to maybe get the sarcasm in that. Like a smart little angel, Inias actually starts to move out of the way, so he’s definitely not that high on Dean’s angelic shit list right now.

Uriel, Numero Uno on the fuck-you-feathers list, blocks his path. "Angels are dying, boy." He advances on Dean, and one hand is up and raised. Dean knows they won’t kill him. It doesn’t mean that Uriel won’t hurt him to get what he wants, though.

Bring it on.

Dean doesn’t move from where he’s standing. The words “Yeah? Let ‘em die,” are on the tip of his tongue, held between his teeth like a hiss. The only thing that keeps them from coming out is this weird wave of _pressure_ that pops through Dean’s ears, like that instant before the relief of blowing his nose. There’s a soft noise, like someone left laundry in the wind.

Except there’s no wind.

That’s when the point of a _blade_ appears through Uriel's neck and white light starts to pour out of every pore of the douchebag's body.

When he collapses, ash sprays out over the floor. Dean barely notices, because that’s… Cas.

 _Cas_ is standing there, his face twisted with righteous fury as Dean’s least favorite angel crumples at his feet. He’s a vision, dark-haired, face intense, and if Uriel hadn't just bit it like the asshole that he is, Dean might think he's hallucinating.

Then Dean takes a second look and now he's _sure_ he's hallucinating.

The silhouette's the same. Cas is wearing the same floppy, baggy trench coat. But it's not Dean's flannel shirt under it anymore, and there's no familiar denim hugging his thighs.

Cas is wearing a suit and tie under there, the dark silhouette of it flaring underneath the coat, and he's got a long silver knife in his hand like he’s planning to use it again. There's no blood on it. Uriel's wings make dark ashy shadows on the concrete in front of him.

That's not Dean's Cas. It can't be. Suit and tie; blade that’s shining even in the half-dark of this shithole. That's an angel. That’s _Castiel_.

The beautiful stranger looks down at Uriel, spread-winged at his feet, like he doesn't even recognize him. When he raises blazing blue eyes to Dean's, Dean expects this figment of his own damned imagination to not recognize him, either.

And then his full, pink lips curve in a tiny smile, and the friendly little crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes deepen.

"Hello, Dean," he says, in a familiar, spine-tingling rasp.

Before Dean can even react, the vision of Cas turns to Inias. "You'll find it was Uriel and his followers who were murdering angels,” he says, grimly. He doesn’t put away the knife in his hand, but he doesn’t get any closer to Inias, either. “They were killing anyone who wouldn't convert to their side. If you look at his whereabouts for the last few weeks, it should be an easy pattern to spot. Go."

Inias looks thunderstruck, both in awe and fear. He's got a silver blade in his hands too, but he doesn't look like he’s planning to use it. Or that he even remembers how to. “Castiel,” he says, like he can’t believe it any more than Dean can. “We’re on the same side!”

"Go," Cas commands, again, and Inias is gone so fast there's practically a crack in the air.

Once they're alone, Dean remains frozen, eyes wide. At his sides, his hands are shaking. "Cas?"

Cas moves to reach him, two long strides taking him within Dean’s personal space so fast that Dean feels the air displace around him. But he doesn’t reach out. He doesn’t try. He remembers the wall between them, in dreams.

"Dean," Cas sighs. Just like in the dreams, he reaches out one hand. He stretches out his fingers towards Dean’s side.

Fingertips touch just the tips of Dean's, warm and electric and so very real.

Dean hiccups. Maybe gasps. His eyes water. It's too much, he can't breathe, and Cas _is here_. Dean doesn't even care if it's because he's gone insane or not.

"You're dead," Dean wants to say, because he can't let himself want this again. He barely stood up from the floor the first time he saw Cas die. He still doesn't have any explanation for why the loss of someone he knew for less than a day has wrecked him for months, but the hole in his chest was so huge that he had to stop asking why.

But Cas's eyes are on their hands. When their fingers slide together, interlocking—not just those measly, tiny little brushes of the pads of their fingers—Cas is the one who sighs, softly, "Oh." Skin tangles against skin, and it feels like so much more than it should.

Dean shudders all over.

He knows this could be a djinn. A dream. An angel mindfuck. That's the only way he gets what he wants.

Their palms slide together, and he realizes he doesn't care.

Dean slowly lets himself tilt forward. Their chests touch first, then press together until he can rest his face into that place between Cas's scratchy jaw and his shoulder. The trench coat feels the same. Their interlocked fingers stay, dangling gently between them. "Please be real."

"Oh, Dean," Cas murmurs, his other hand threading through Dean’s hair, gently. "Yes. Yes, I’m real. I'm here, I'm sorry it took so long."

Dean shudders. How can he believe it? But God, he wants to. "How?"

Cas kisses the crown of his head, soft and gentle. "Angels need human vessels to walk the Earth, but having _been_ human, the thought of—well. I preferred my original body." He gently pries Dean's head off his shoulder. Dean stares at him, something warm and wet on his eyelashes when he looks up. "I had to call in some very hefty favors, and do one or two of my own, to get my form back. It took more time than I expected."

Dean blinks, very slowly. He doesn't think he's ever had anyone kiss his hair before. Definitely never with something that seems like such... like such...

Caring.

"You're... wait, you're... you didn't die?" he stammers.

Cas hasn't let go of him, not with either hand. But his expression is a little sad. "I did. Well... my body did." He blinks, slowly. "Oh, Dean, I didn't realize you truly thought... I'm sorry." The hand that was at his scalp slides sideways, and the palm that rasps gently against the stubble on Dean's cheek does feel a little different: callused, hard, not soft-skinned. "We'll talk about this more later." He looks meaningfully down at the ground just to the side of them.

Yeah, Dean vaguely realized they were having a conversation over a dead body. He just didn't care. Not the first time, not the last.

It would probably bother him more if he hadn't dreamed of kicking Uriel in his heavenly nuts more than once.

"What'd he do?" he asks.

Cas's expression goes hard and sharp and unrecognizable, so the sharp spike of arousal that dives all the way to Dean's groin comes sort of unexpected. "Tried to kick-start the apocalypse," he answers. “And killed any of his brothers and sisters who did not agree.”

Dean blinks. And then blinks some more before what that means filters through his addled brain. "Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “You mean angels are in on it, too?"

Cas looks away, a tight swallow making his chin clench. Dean realizes he's ashamed.

"Some, yes. Unfortunately, they may be the ones in power," Cas confirms. Suddenly, Dean needs to sit down; his knees can't take it anymore.

They’re fucked, if that’s the case. They’re so fucked.

Cas catches Dean as he stumbles, dragging him easily towards a nearby table. "Cas?" Dean rasps, leaning against it. "How the hell do we fight all of Hell _and_ all of Heaven?"

Cas rubs his knuckles over Dean's cheekbone. "Together."

Like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Dean absolutely doesn't lean his face into the touch of that rough, warm hand, the bony rub and solidity of it. Absolutely not.

He does.

Then Dean looks at the empty space where Daddy's Little Angel was standing before he zapped away like he'd seen, well, a ghost. "Inias. Isn't he gonna tattle on you? Shit. Did they even know you were...?"

He still doesn't dare say 'alive.'

"They knew I was celestial again—all the angels felt it when I regained my grace. And Inias is loyal, just a little..." Cas trails off.

Dean snorts. "Spineless?"

Cas gives him a gentle look. "I was going to say 'harmless.' He's never had to choose a side, because there's always only been one side." Cas looks at the closed door, behind which the sum of Dean's worst nightmares is chained in a devil trap. "But I think I saw the worst of all of it." His fingers slide gently off Dean's face, but they don't go far—cradling the side of his neck. "The best of it, as well."

Dean's eyes close involuntarily. He's so tired. He's been so tired, but Cas makes him feel safe enough to feel it. "I don't suppose you have a plan?"

Cas's answer is nothing more than a low rumble that buzzes through Dean's body. It certainly feels positive enough. They stay like that for a few minutes, leaning against a table and each other. Dean is slumped and Cas is warm and yielding, but strong. They keep their arms wrapped around each other, a lot like that night in the Impala.

Eventually Cas starts righting them and Dean makes a small noise in protest. Too soon! His hands clutch at Cas's coat.

"I just thought," Cas says blandly, untangling Dean's fingers from his lapels. "If you had the time, you might like to kill Alastair."

Dean's head pops up so fast he nearly clips Cas's jaw. "Excuse me?"

Cas pets his hair, gently, like he can't stand to let go any more than Dean can. His eyes are pretty damned calm for someone who just politely offered Dean the chance to murder someone, as easily as he'd offer him a cup of coffee. "I was not privy to what he did to you." Cas's jaw clenches, then relaxes. "But I saw what he wanted you to become. That you did not is a testament to you, but... he remains what he is. Hell's torturer. A demon. Don't you want him dead?"

Dean wants to say 'it's complicated,' but as much as he lies, he recognizes at least some of the big ones he tells himself.

"Yeah," he says, hoarsely. Yeah, but...

He looks down to feel cool steel—strangely slippery, somehow different—against his hands. That strange, shimmery, silver knife of Cas is in his hand. It feels right, there—silky, like it's nuzzling into the cup of his palm.

"My blade doesn't just banish demons," Cas tells him, simply. "It rids the world of their plague."

Dean blinks sharply. "You mean those assholes had something like this the whole time and they kept sending us in with a memorized exorcism and one stinking blade?" The anger is coming back, now that Dean's had a chance to breathe, to come to terms with the idea that Cas could be real. That Cas is here with him: solid and warm and tingly at the edges of his senses.

Cas shrugs in an approximation of a yes, but his lips turn down at the corners. That's another thing that seems to stick in his craw.

Dean looks down at the blade in his hand. It's long, almost the length of his hand and forearm, but balanced to perfection. Dean bets he could spin it or even throw it with next to no practice.

Dean finds that he wants to test it out, maybe toss it around a couple of times.

And then he wants, more than anything in the world, to hole up somewhere comfortable and wrap himself around Cas. And, finally, sleep.

(Then maybe… some other stuff he's been torturing himself with.)

He looks back at Cas, and finds himself on the receiving end of the warmest, softest, fondest look he's ever seen. Dean knows, just knows, that Cas has missed him just as fiercely, just as sharply as he has. Dean puts his non-bladed hand up against Cas's chest, and burrows it under the layers of outerwear, suit jacket and tie until all he can feel is body heat through a thin dress shirt. Cas is real. His heart beats, and his lungs breathe, and Dean might actually be okay after all.

Dean looks down at the beautiful knife in his hand, then at the closed door. Very slowly, he lifts his hand from Cas's chest and steps back just enough to carefully flip the blade in his palm. It's just as balanced as he thought it would be, and in his hand, it's as warm as Cas's skin, now.

He wants Alastair dead. He should want him dead.

But Dean's so tired of pain and death. He holds the knife by the blade and—a little reluctantly—offers the hilt back to Cas. "If I kill him, like this," he says, slowly, "I think he's won."

Cas cocks his head a little to the side, and his gaze isn't sad or disappointed or happy. Just... accepting, in a way that Dean's never seen on anyone's face before. "Alright. I will do it." But he raises a hand and gently touches Dean's wrist, pressing the knife hilt back towards him. "Keep it. I like the thought of it protecting you. I will use Uriel's."

Cas bends towards the corpse and draws a long blade—it looks identical—from inside... somewhere, because Uriel couldn't have had that up his sleeve and still bend his elbow.

Then he straightens, and Dean sees some kind of ancient warrior shining under that skin as he starts towards the closed door. He closes it behind him.

From outside, Dean hears Alastair's strange, whiny, whispery cadence. It starts with the same arrogant slant but it quickly loses something. Dean isn't listening to the words, but the noises cut off abruptly with one sharp scream, followed by what can only be described as a maniacal laugh that coughs out of existence. Through the thin spaces between the door and frame, angry amber light flashes for what seems like too long until it finally stops.

Cas reappears, grim determination on his face. He’s still got the blade in his hand, but this time, there’s smoke drifting up from it. "I think I enjoyed that too much."

Dean is starting to feel slightly hysterical. Between the lack of sleep and the adrenaline of the last thirty minutes or so, he’s about a stone’s throw from losing it. "Well, not everyone can be perfect, like me."

Cas slips the blade he's holding away, like so much mist. Dean is gonna need to watch him do that a couple hundred more times. Also, maybe Cas can twirl it a few times so Dean can watch his long fingers moving along the metal with an expert precision. Yeah, that'd be awesome.

Dean blinks and Cas is next to him again, pulling him close. Dean positively melts into it and he doesn't care one bit whether he should, or shouldn’t.

"You are, you know," Cas whispers into his temple.

"Hmm?" Dean leans back, fighting the urge to run his nose along the blunt edge of Cas's jaw.

"Perfect," Cas says with so much self-assurance and absolutely no hint that it just fundamentally rearranges every single thing Dean knows to be true. How can he just _say_ things like that?

Cas sighs against his hair, sounding as content as Dean feels, before he detaches. It’s reluctantly, at least, looking wistfully back at Dean, so that's good for Dean's ego.

But there's no blood on him. Dean glances at the door. "The body...?"

Cas shakes his head. "We should go." He looks around as if just realizing what is missing. "Where is Sam?"

Dean's lips thin. He digs his phone out of his pocket. No service. "They didn't exactly grab both of us. So he's probably turning over Heaven and Earth."

Cas's head cocks.

"It's an expression," Dean clarifies.

Cas raises an eyebrow. "I'm a professor of religious studies. I know," he answers, looking amused, and Dean blushes. "But considering Sam, I was just thinking that might be literal. We should get you back into cell phone range."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Potential Trigger Warning** : Dean experiences some pretty hardcore grief in this chapter. He considers, briefly, some harmful ideas.
> 
> **Tia:** Oh, come on, you didn't actually believe that Cas wasn't going to come back, did you? (Poor Dean had no such reassurance, but he was hanging in there, poor sweetheart.) Yes, this chapter was a bit plot-heavier, but trust us: there's smoosh ahoy!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Tia:** Remember how we promised smoosh after all that plot? Well, smoosh ahoy! This chapter also contains one of my favorite scenes in this story... <3

Finding a spot with enough cellular coverage to reach Sam sounds an awful lot like returning to the real world from a nightmare that, miraculously, turned into something much nicer. Dean doesn't want to, but he also doesn't want to put Sam through too much distress, either. 

He sighs. "Fine. But we're finding a motel or something after, I am exhausted. I need my four hours."

Cas, who hasn't moved more than a foot and half away from Dean unless he really needed to, steps even closer into his orbit and gently places a hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean shudders, connection ringing through his entire body. 

He doesn't even notice the change in flooring under him until Cas steps back, a guilty look all over his face. "My apologies, I didn't mean to do that quite yet."

Dean blinks and finds himself inside a clean-looking hotel room. It's basic, but there’s no funny stains anywhere, and the walls are white, rather than covered with ugly wallpaper. There’s an abstract art piece hanging on the wall, and no strange smells. Cas has better taste than Sam and Dean. "S'ok." Dean realizes he's kind of slurring, but he puts that down to proximity and exhaustion.

It occurs to Dean a second later that Cas flew them here: Cas can probably fly him right back to the doorstep of the motel he and Sam are sharing. But he doesn’t say anything about that. Neither does Cas.

"May I have one of your credit cards?" Cas holds out one elegant hand, palm up, open and waiting. "I'll secure this room while you call your brother. I'd use one of mine, but I suspect I’ve been declared missing, and possibly presumed dead."

Sam's got a strange tone to his voice when he answers the phone, and Dean doesn't know what to make of it. It’s almost like an echo? Maybe it’s the signal. His little brother sounds happy that Dean's safe, but... weirded-out, too? Dean's not exactly sure how much to tell him, either. Especially since he can hear Ruby in the background.

She definitely sounds disappointed. What the fuck?

Maybe it's got something to do with the fact that Dean just told them that there might be _angels_ trying to blow the whole pizza stand, too. It’s not just the humans between Godzilla and Mothra anymore. Godzilla and Mothra might be trying to join forces.

Sam says, very slowly, "Wait. You... Uriel’s dead? Angels don't _die,_ Dean!"

Dean's eyes slip to Cas's knife, lying shining in front of the TV. "They do now, Sammy."

There’s not much more to say, after that. The apocalypse is heavy on their shoulders again. Sam’s the one who hangs up, first.

(Dean didn't tell him about Cas being alive. He knew he should. He really did, but... not today. When they meet up tomorrow, he will. Really.)

The door clicks open; Cas's expression is amused and rueful as he holds up two key cards. "The manager was a little confused that we had already gained entrance, and decided that we must have registered earlier when the system was down," he announces, chuckling. "He will look through the records, but I didn't have to put down your card."

"Good, 'cause we don't exactly stay at the kind of places that need _key cards,_ Cas," Dean jokes.

"Well, we have one night at this one." Then he smiles at Dean. "Take off your shirt, please."

Dean's sort of glad he's already sitting on the bed. (Which is king-sized and something he's not... really thinking too hard about yet.) "I'm sorry, what?" He blinks rapidly. 

His pulse starts thrumming as he watches Cas take off his coat, and then his suit jacket. He starts rolling his sleeves up his forearms—the forearms that Dean can't seem to look away from. He wants to touch the skin there, run his fingers down the line of bone, draw shapes into it.

"I'm going to ward you from all prying eyes," Cas says casually, sitting next to him. He turns to face Dean, hauling his legs up in front of him and crossing them. His shoes and socks are also off; when did that happen? "I am going to make sure no angel can just find you. Or 'take you' against your will again. It's very rude."

Dean swallows. "That, uh—that sounds awesome." But really, he's mesmerized by the feel of Cas's knees pressing into his thigh. "How's that gonna work?”

Cas smiles a smile that promises a lot of things; Dean thinks he might just be ready for them. "Well, first, you have to take off your shirt. And then," Cas leans forward and runs an index finger down Dean's breastbone. "Then, I'll thoroughly mark you up."

Dean blinks, slowly. He probably should be thinking of some kind of objection. But his skin is aching where Cas drew a line of warmth down the middle of his chest. "Uh." He swallows, and looks down. "Did you start already?"

Cas leans in a little closer, and his breath whispers over the curve of Dean's ear. "Not yet." Dean can hear him smiling. "It might hurt a little, but I'll try to distract you from it."

Dean looks down. He doesn't remember his hands going to his shirt buttons. He doesn't think he can blame that on how tired he is, either. But since he's already started, he keeps going on as every single muscle he's got seems to want to. He shakes off his flannel and pulls off his undershirt, glancing down at his anti-possession tattoo.

When he looks up again, Cas is watching him, and his eyes are sad. “Oh,” he says, quietly. “Dean, you’ve lost weight.” He reaches out with both hands, palms up, very slowly, so Dean can’t mistake the motion. Dean shivers as long fingers trace up the leather cord of his amulet on both sides, and he closes his eyes as Cas lifts it over his neck. There’s a small click of motion as Cas puts it on the bedside table.

The excuse that it was a lean couple of months sort of stings on the tip of Dean’s tongue, but he doesn’t let the lie out. He shakes his head. “I’m okay. Better, now.” And that, that’s the truth. “The marks… where do you put ‘em?”

"Where no one can erase or remove them." Cas is still moving so carefully, so slowly; Dean sits very still as his hand comes close again.His finger skims, gently, around the rays of the sun, and draws a warm star over Dean's heart. He skirts up to Dean's right shoulder.

The flare of pain along it is bone-deep, achy, and Dean's suddenly awake, his body jumping. But that might be because Cas molded the whole of his hand along the curve of that bone, and the warmth of it is sweet and startling.

Cas leans down and kisses the curve of Dean's shoulder, gently. "Sorry," he murmurs. "Is that alright?"

"Y-yes." Dean isn't ashamed to say his voice cracks. Anyone's would. He reaches out to loosen Cas's tie, fair's fair. He gets about three shirt buttons open before he gives into temptation and skims his fingers over smooth chest and warm muscles. He wants to lean in and kiss the dip right where Cas’s neck meets his chest, but Cas is already drawing more symbols on Dean.

A line of letters right down his sternum, followed by soft, wet kisses, leaves him tingly but fine. The slow lick of his collarbone, followed by soft fingertips and a slight ache, hitches Dean's breath. Cas shifts him around; the other collarbone gets a similar treatment and Dean's definitely getting hard already. He closes his eyes and sighs when Cas slowly licks the nearest nipple and warm lines of gentle pain run slowly down each rib.

The bottom curves of his ribs probably should hurt the most, Dean would figure, but Cas is sucking gently on the side of his neck in long, drawing pulls by then, and Dean can hardly lift his own head from where it's lolled back on his shoulders and a little to the side. "You givin' me a hickey, Cas?" he slurs.

"I don't need to," Cas murmurs, and his breath on the newly damp skin tingles sweet and bright. His finger traces the very edge of the handprint on Dean's opposite shoulder, and the little flare of pain underneath it is like the bite of good whiskey. Or like anticipation. "My mark is on your shoulder, and now my words are scribed on your bones."

There's a happy, possessive edge to that dark vibration of a voice that really shouldn't crank Dean up—but it does.

Cas wraps an arm around him, and a large, warm hand presses carefully against one of his shoulder blades. There’s another flare of bone-deep ache, accentuated by just the nudge of Cas's nose along the outline of the palmprint. It goes on and on, until Dean is dizzy and buzzing and the need to kiss Cas has reached a fever pitch.

"Cas," Dean murmurs, drugged-out, possibly stoned, chin turning to seek him out. Up until this point, Dean has been holding onto Cas however he can—hand on bicep, fingers digging into shoulder. Cas’s shirt is still on and Dean needs to fix that soon. Dean runs shaking fingers down Cas's chin, gently pressing upwards at the delicate point.

Cas comes without question or pause, and lays soft, careful kisses on Dean's lips. Dean tries to deepen them, but Cas does just the opposite—he slows them down, and suddenly it's long drugging kisses that do nothing to help Dean's spinning head. But it's a good sort of spinny, so Dean just tilts his head, cups Cas's cheek more firmly, and dives in for more of those lush, perfect kisses.

He barely feels the warm sear of the words that go down his spine, with Cas's lips moving against his. But the one that goes just over his tailbone makes him jump, 'cause okay, that is weirdly sensitive. Dean finds himself smiling into the kiss until Cas pulls back and looks at him quizzically. 

"Is something... funny?" Cas asks, looking hesitant.

"Did you just stamp 'property of Castiel' on my ass, dude?" Dean asks, tongue poking into the inside of his cheek. He feels good. He feels... great. He feels better than he has in months—his bones warm, skin warmer; he can feel the flush of his own neck.

Dean’s only teasing, so his eyes go a little wider when Cas turns a little pink over his cheekbones. Holy shit, he can blush. "I—it's not precisely that, it's—" Cas stammers. "They don't translate well, some types of protection sigils, but they are most powerful when tied to a Name, and I thought—"

God, he’s so fucking adorable. Cas has got no-one but himself to blame when Dean tilts down and nips his neck hard enough to leave a mark. Cas’s whole body jerks. Dean leans back to admire his work, and frowns a bit as the tiny red mark slowly disappears. Dean runs a casual finger along the spot; Cas shivers. "So, you've got angel healing?"

Cas nods at that. "But I'm able to contain my grace in certain ways that make… intimacies easier."

Intimacies, huh? Mmmm. "Like how I was able to mark you at all without chipping a tooth?" Dean leans in and nibbles some more, only to pull back and watch it fade away. "That hardly seems fair."

Cas turns the rest of the way towards him, and his expression is serious and a little sad, again.

"I never wanted to become an angel, again," Cas says, pressing their foreheads together gently. "Not once I remembered what that was like. I feared that I would become what I used to be: cold, distant, unable to fully understand the humans in my charge."

"Why did you?" Dean runs a slow hand down Cas's arm, ending the sweep with the tangle of their fingers. “The way you talked about it,” he studies Cas’s fingers and the way they look next to his, “you sounded like it might be worse than being dead.”

“I did think that,” Cas says quietly. “Make no mistake, my plan was to die, perhaps saving yours and your brother’s lives at the same time. It would have been more than enough. A fitting end, I think.” Cas takes a shuddering breath. “And then I saw you fighting—Dean, you’re always fighting—and I—” he takes a shuddering breath. “I couldn’t give up so easily. I chose to live instead—even if it meant I would never care again the way I should.” Cas kisses the tip of Dean’s nose, and laughs. "Thankfully, it appears, once you go human, you never really go back."

Dean's never been a person whose nose is kissed, until now. He laughs a little shakily, himself, not quite ready to hear that he’s the person that someone ‘dies for,’ let alone ‘lives for,’ and dives in for another long kiss instead. Finally, they taper off, gently. Dean cups Cas's cheek and strokes the gorgeous arc of his cheekbone, gently, with his thumb. 

It’s... nice. Almost as good as holding his hand. Yeah, Dean goes back for a little more of that, looking down at where their thumbs stretch side by side, their fingers tangling. There’s a bright spark of silver between them.

"Hey, uh. It's no carvings on your ribs, but... how about this?" He works the thick silver ring off his right ring finger and slides it right onto Cas's left.

There's a brief moment where Dean realizes exactly what he's done, but fuck it. He's all in. And he can’t look away from the sight of his ring on Cas’s finger. It’s scratched-up and imperfect, but it fits.

Angels might not need to breathe, but Dean hears Cas's quick, sucked-in breath. And for an instant the world is cold and sharp again, because shit, shit, what is Dean even doing? Cas is a fucking _angel_ again now, why would he even want—

Then Cas grabs his hands back, and when Dean looks up, barely daring, those blue eyes are wide, cobalt. They flick up and down between their hands and Dean's gaze like Cas can't decide which to look at. He says, with an urgency Dean can feel on his skin, "You... do you remember? Your dream... you said…” Cas stammers, sounding less angelic than he’s sounded since Dean met him, “I know that for you it was probably just a dream... but I said I would remind you."

Considering that he just jammed his ring onto Cas's finger, Dean's pretty sure he knows what Cas is talking about. "I, uh... I did think that was a dream," he admits. "But..." he runs a finger back and forth over the ring on Cas's finger. "I think this looks really nice, right here."

"So do I." The gravel in Cas's voice is extra-heavy and Dean doesn’t think that it’s grace making his wide eyes sparkle like that. He smiles, brilliant and uncontrolled, mostly gums and teeth; then he laughs. "Does this make my angel blade my dowry?"

Dean snorts in amusement, too giddy to do much of anything else. "I'll have you know, I'm a very hot commodity on the angel circuit. Every other day I got one popping in and demanding my attention."

“Not anymore.” Cas smiles the smuggest smile in all of existence. "They're going to go mad when they realize they can't find you."

Dean imagines it, those smug arrogant jerkwads banging their wings in frustration. He likes it. He pulls Cas in—reels him in, really—until their arms are tight around each other and Dean’s nose is tucked under the angle of Cas’s jaw. He feels Cas mirror him on the opposite side, pressing against his temple. "I'm so glad you're back."

He’s so glad that Cas is _alive_. Holy fuck.

"'Until the day breaks, and the shadows flee,'" Cas says, and there's enough rhythm to his voice that Dean knows he's quoting something. His lips move in a small, sad smile. "If I were truly interested in protecting you, I should probably have stayed away."

"No way," Dean protests. He nuzzles Cas's neck. His lips scrape against a little stubble. He's got no idea what an eternal being is doing with stubble, but he'll take it. It makes this all feel a little bit more real. "You kidding? You're rocking the rebel angel deal. Definitely..." and halfway through 'hot' Dean feels his jaw split in a goddamned embarrassingly huge yawn.

Cas's hand settles on the small of his back. "Dean, you should sleep," he murmurs, and the low rub of his palm is like the best massage Dean’s ever had.

Dean grumbles, but suddenly that leaden feeling is back in his limbs—only it’s about one hundred times worse. He lets Cas untie his shoes and take off his socks. Dean's already shirtless, but the pants have to go. He finds himself tucked into the huge, surprisingly comfortable bed. Cas climbs in after him, down to boxers and a white undershirt. Weirdly, he wasn’t wearing one under his shirt a second ago, but Dean’s not about to ask..

He's suddenly nervous. It's not like they haven't done this before—actually, y’know, sleeping-sleeping together—but the last time, there'd been sex first, and that, at least, seems like the proper order of things. Then Cas is there, warm and pliant, but also solid in a way that's really comforting.

"There better be morning sex," Dean mumbles, as Cas curls up against his back, knees tucking into knees. A palm rests on Dean's hip before it starts a slow circle, erasing an ache he hadn't even been aware of.

Dean doesn't think he's ever been the little spoon before—hell, he can count the number of times he's shared a bed the whole night with someone rather than just picking up and slipping out on one hand. Even with Cassie. But there must be something really soothing about it, because it's not just the exhaustion that takes him away, soft and dreamless. 

Dean wakes up slow, eased up out of sleep, and feeling... good. Really good.

Cas—and there's no confusion about it, his whole body immediately knows who's behind him; there's no flinch or tension—is pressing small kisses across the line of the back of his shoulders. His hand has migrated forward, resting on the just-slightly-squishy rise of Dean's belly. "Good morning," he whispers, small and intimate. It’s the nicest wake-up Dean’s ever gotten, like he got smoothed right from one dream into another.

"Hi." Dean's voice sounds soft and rusty. He wants to stretch, but that would involve moving out of the cradle of angel he's currently lying in—his ass in the curve of Cas's hip, knees still slotted together, chest to back. Nope, not moving. "How'd you sleep?"

"I don't sleep anymore," Cas answers. He nuzzles in closer and presses his face into the nape of Dean's neck. "But getting to hold you through the night was very pleasant, and watching over your sleep was soothing."

That should sound a lot creepier to Dean than it does, but Dean can admit that, given the choice, he'd kind of want to do the same thing: stay awake as long as possible and just stare at the possibilities resting beside him. Instead, he just wiggles deeper into Cas's embrace and sighs. "Well, I hope it was restful."

Cas hums, pressing another careful kiss on the knob of Dean's spine. "Extremely."

Dean can live with that, for now. He slides his hand down from where it’s been resting on his pillow in a loose fist in front of him, and covers the one of Cas's that’s resting on his stomach. His fingers automatically spread to accommodate Dean's. The warm metal of the ring Dean shoved on there last night is a pleasant reminder. He's still a little shocked at himself, but he's learning to maybe lean into this feeling instead of mistrust it.

Cas smiles behind him as if he can hear Dean's thoughts, and the small curve of it radiates through Dean's chest. "Good things do happen, Dean," he chides gently. As if in emphasis, he squeezes the fingers they have tangled together.

Dean scoffs. "Not in my experience," he answers, but it doesn't have any weight to it.

Cas chuckles and rubs his face gently against Dean's shoulder. "There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Dean, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Dean’s pretty sure he’s smirking. “And I can say that quite literally."

"Hey! No playing the angel card," Dean protests. "Besides, you ain’t pulling that wool over my eyes. That's Shakespeare, not religion."

"Song of Songs, Shakespeare... it doesn't make any of it any less true," Cas answers, and lifts himself up and a little over to place a small kiss on the arc of Dean's jaw. He can't reach Dean's lips unless Dean turns to meet him.

Dean turns to meet him.

They sink into the huge bed like they’re in some sort of period drama, only there's not a camera pan out or fade to black: just Cas, solid and warm, settling half on top of him. Dean sighs into it. _Sighs._ His right leg hooks over the back of Cas's nearest knee, keeping him close. He rubs his foot down a hairy calf, finding the sensations weirdly interesting, but then Cas licks into his mouth and he loses track of time for a while.

The kissing is an intimacy in and of itself. Dean's been kissed by a lot of people and planted a lot of kisses himself, but Cas… Cas has thousands more in him that Dean wants to experience. This time, Cas stays away from the handprint, so Dean can enjoy the experience without having to sort out the extra sensations of whatever the hell that feeling is. 

Right, Dean is definitely going to have to ask Cas about that.

Soon. Really soon.

But first, there's endless miles of smooth skin on Cas's back for his hands to run up and down, scratching blunt fingernails across it at the same tempo his tongue licks into Cas's mouth.

Cas shivers and arches at the slow scrape of nails, his back flexing deliciously under Dean's hands; damn, that's a rush.

Dean smiles against his lips. "Your grace or whatever doesn't insulate you against that, huh?" Even as an angel, Cas likes this?

"It might," Cas answers. Dean's momentarily disappointed until Cas adds, ducking his chin lower to nibble at a soft patch of skin just below Dean's ear, "You're different, though. _Mm._ "

Dean wants to hear more of that low, deep, throaty sound. Feeling it vibrate against his neck is addictive. Cas, on top of him, is heavy and breathtaking and luxurious.

"How?" Dean asks, idly, curiously, but mostly still swallowed up in the feel of Cas's stubble against his neck and the slow, careful press of lips still behind his ear. He wants Cas to talk. About anything.

"Do you remember?" Cas asks, kisses dotting downwards, under Dean’s chin. "I said we had a profound bond?"

Dean is having trouble thinking at all, let alone remembering anything. Cas's thigh has crept slowly upwards between Dean's knees, and now, as they shift, the muscle of it occasionally brushes just barely against Dean's cock. Sometimes a push against his balls. It's a delicious bolt of pleasure each time.

"The handprint," Cas's voice rumbles through Dean as he talks: he's kissing Dean's left pec, biting gently at the swell of the muscle. "It's…" he licks again "… a physical manifestation…" he skips the nipple, already achingly peaked, and noses up Dean's sternum. "…of my grace…"

"Because you—" Then Dean gasps as a tongue sweeps wet in the little hollow of his collarbone, then starts down the other side. Cas licks his way down, and the asshole just puffs once at Dean's nipple before mouthing at the little curve where muscle meets ribs. "Shit, Cas. I can't think when you're doing that."

"Would you rather I stop?"

"No-one likes a smug angel," Dean grumbles, but he reaches down and tucks his fingers into the wrecked fluff of Cas's hair.

"I hope _someone_ does," Cas murmurs, chuckling, and nuzzles at Dean's solar plexus.

Dean nudges at his thigh with a knee. "Off," he mumbles, not even sure why he's going pink. "You can explain while it's my turn exploring."

Cas allows Dean to roll them—Dean twitches a little and grabs for the edge of the bed for a second before he remembers: oh, right, king-sized mattress. No worries about falling off the bed and concussions interrupting the good stuff. 

The first thing Dean does is get rid of that cotton shirt that Cas is, for some reason, still wearing. Cas raises his arms and lets Dean tug the material over his head. Cas's stomach muscles ripple as he lifts enough to get the fabric out from under him, and Dean knows exactly where he's starting.

He licks one long path between ab muscles and then kisses each damp inch. "Well?" he says between each. "You gonna explain?"

"When I rescued you—" Cas sucks in a breath and Dean sucks on a patch of skin at the edge of his rib cage. "It was at the end of a protracted battle..." Dean licks around the sweet curve on the underside of a pectoral muscle. "I was injured, and so were you. We—" Dean hums along the right side of his collar bone, kissing into the hollows. "We held onto each other rather tightly."

"Yeah?" Dean murmurs, and settles his full length on top of Cas. "How tightly?"

They both shiver. It's not much—hell, they're still not even naked. But being slotted together like this feels right.

"Like this," Cas answers, softly. His right hand hovers over Dean's left shoulder, but doesn't touch. His other arm wraps around Dean's waist, hand splaying at the small of his back. "Your gaze in mine, my grace filtering into the strength of your soul. We held each other up. We… connected."

"Sounds... nice." Shit, he does not have Cas's gift for words.

“Very.” Cas’s mouth curves, sweetly. He sighs and tips his head to give Dean better access to his neck. "There's a reason I thought they were erotic dreams through most of my life."

Dean gnaws gently at the nearest tendon, stretched tight in front of him. "Oh, yeah?” Cas sure as hell never mentioned _that_ when they were talking about his memories. “I need to hear about these dreams one day." He says it into Cas's skin, warm and tender. "Did you wake up hard?" Dean asks; whispers. "Or did you come in your pants?"

Cas shudders, moans. The hand hovering over Dean's shoulder wraps around him and they roll again, Cas wedged perfectly against Dean's hips, his arms winding up framing Dean's head. No one ends up on the floor; this king bed thing is awesome. Cas hovers over Dean's lips, eyes almost all pupil. "You are the best kind of trouble, I think," he growls, and kisses Dean like he's more important than oxygen.

"I'm tryin'," Dean answers, flashing a grin that's gotten panties dropped across more states than he likes to remember. But then Cas's tongue is dipping in and out of his mouth, sweet-tart.

Dean's never had a male body lying across his before today, not like this. The weight of Cas, how solid he is, feels like a gift even with Cas holding himself a little above. Presumably that's so he doesn't squash Dean, but Dean reaches out both hands and tucks them firmly against Cas's back, pulling his full weight down against his own chest.

Cas is more than a little hard on top of him. And not that rubbing off against him in Baby wasn't nice, but like Cas said—Dean's willing to be trouble even if Cas is being all sweet and respectful.

More than anything else, Dean _wants_. He wants selfishly and unreservedly, and not in the way he's wanted other things in his life. Getting laid and getting hammered are fun, but he doesn't _crave_ those things the same way he does the simple feeling of Cas's skin against his.

Now that Cas is no longer holding himself all the way up, he uses those long graceful arms, one at a time, to reach down and carefully grip Dean's thighs and gently part them, just enough for Cas to settle comfortably between them. Dean's eyes close. This isn’t a position he’s used to, and it's just two thin bits of material between their cocks. Now they're both hard, but it’s not too demanding yet. Dean rocks a little, testing out the feel of Cas's body weight against his.

Cas makes a slow, soft sound in his throat; his hand tightens on Dean's thigh. The press of the strength in them, the arch of his hips spreading Dean open, is dizzying.

It's not urgent, but the anticipation in it is making Dean pant. He runs his hands down Cas's back again as they move together, but this time, he traces that line where elastic meets skin—back and forth, back and forth.

God, he wants, and he doesn't even know how to ask.

Cas's thumb traces soft circles on the sensitive skin of the inside of Dean's thigh. It makes his back arch into the next roll of their hips and he shudders at the pressure in just the right spot. Cas kisses him again, long slow drags of his tongue matching their slow dance.

Dean might be slowly losing his mind. Their kiss ends and they pant, a little breathless, into each other's mouths. Cas smiles, sweetly. "The things I think about Dean," he murmurs into Dean's chin, kissing upwards. 

"I… haven't, um. When I thought you were..." Dean trails off on the admission that he’s been living like a fucking—nonfucking—monk for the past few months, and swallows past a lump in his throat. He's got vague notions of what he might want, yes, and some ideas, but very little practical experience with guys outside of a couple of handjobs. Cas is also not some one night stand, and that somehow makes it different, too. "I'm, uh, not sure my fantasies even know where to begin."

Cas lifts up a little on one arm and looks down at him, and the warmth in his gaze is nearly unbearable. Dean would look away, but—for once—he doesn't want to withdraw. He wants to be here, right here.

Then Cas's lips flirt just barely upwards. "Fantasies? Mmmm," he murmurs. His tongue smooths delicately along the bottom curve of his lip. His thumb slides higher, higher in small circles. He traces the lower edge of Dean's boxers with one hand, finger pads so close to Dean's groin and so far. "Would it be too much to ask..."

He trails off.

Dean blinks, slowly, because it's taking too much effort to move his eyelids with all his attention focused on Cas's hand, resting high, high on his thigh. "Anything," he says—a rash promise he's never made before and never had any plans to.

Cas whispers, "I would really like to see all of you," like it's some big secret.

"Yes!" Dean nods frantically. "Yes, please. Now? Now is good." He's babbling, just a little, but there's a part of Dean that feels like it’s been waiting for this his whole life. For someone to look at him the way Cas is. He never knew it until he got it. But it's here, _they’re_ here, and Cas is looking at him like he's the whole world.

Cas's smile is blinding and his hands skim up to the top of Dean's boxers. He leans back, gets on his knees beside him, and Dean mourns the loss of all that heat and solid weight. But fuck if that's not made up for with the electric feeling of Cas's thumbs sliding under the waistband, and the slow pull of the thin cotton downwards.

Cas is gentle, deliberate and careful about it. He pulls gently to tent up the cloth so it doesn't catch on where Dean's hard in his boxers. But the deliberation in it makes Dean shudder anyway. Especially when Cas's fingertips skim lightly down the bare lines of his hip bones, the boxers at Dean’s thighs still trapping his legs together.

Dean lifts one knee and shivers all over as Cas's hands trace at the creases where his thighs go into his hips, fingertips catching at the top of the cloth again as he drags it down Dean's calves. Then Cas discards the boxers off the edge of the bed, and just... stares. 

Not touching. Just staring, from somewhere around Dean’s ankles.

Dean wants to squirm, but he doesn't. He props both hands behind his head and grins, shaky. "Like what you see?"

Cas licks his lips and nods. "Admiring my work."

"Your work?" Dean sighs as Cas's hands finally touch again: hands on his knees, gentle, warm. Then motion—sliding up so very, very slowly inside of his thighs.

"I rebuilt your body molecule by molecule," Cas says, not without a little hint of pride. "I repaired you, bit by bit." His thumbs find the hollows of Dean's hip bones again, rubbing careful circles, slowly expanding outward. Dean fights not to squirm.

Dean wiggles his left hand, clenching and unclenching where he knows his pinkie finger used to be a little crooked from an old break, but it isn’t anymore. "Thanks for that, by the way. There's some aches and pains—" he sucks in a sharp breath as Cas lifts up onto his knees, leans over with his back a long, muscled line and one hand set beside Dean’s thigh, and kisses one of Dean’s kneecaps. "—pains that are gone."

"I am always glad to be of service," Cas murmurs, his cheek resting on the rise of Dean's knee. "But you were already beautiful as you were. Just a little... banged up."

"Hope I did something for you, too—ah!" Dean gasps as Cas turns his head, and the trail of his scruff runs tingles up the inside of Dean's knee. Cas's lips follow.

Cas chuckles darkly at him. "I am getting to admire my work, what more could I need?" His free hand cups the back of Dean's knee, splaying him more open. Dean bites his lip. Fuck, he feels really, _really_ naked.

"I can think of a thing or two," Dean answers, his eyes skimming down Cas's back and lighting on the way his boxers stretch over his ass.

Dean has the near-uncontrollable urge to grab at Cas and pull him back to where he wants him, where he can slide his hands under that fabric and feel and squeeze and maybe—alright, his brain shorts out a little at the 'more' part of that. But, also, Cas is sucking a bruise into the center of his thigh and that is just distracting and unfair.

Dean's dick is aching to be touched. Sure, he wants that right the fuck now, but also, not quite yet? Because he thinks maybe that'll be the start of an amazing, but uncontrollable, frenzy. Or maybe an explosion.

Instead Dean shifts the leg currently not being lavished with attention and wiggles around to hook his big toe into the elastic holding Cas's boxers up. Cas laughs against his skin when it works.

"Off," Dean demands, laughing. "Just 'cause I didn't rebuild you or whatever doesn't mean I don't wanna get a good look."

Cas nips his inner thigh. It’s the last damned thing in the world from painful. Dean is still gasping from the way that runs sparks up his spine when Cas gently eases off him and stands up at the foot of the bed.

Shit, he's so damned good-looking—all wide-blown blue eyes and flushed cheeks, pink lips a little parted, abs still a little damp from Dean's mouth. He's tenting his plain blue boxers in a way that's making Dean's mouth water, and the fact that that hard-on is even happening as Dean watches makes him a little dizzy.

Then a lot dizzy as Cas starts to peel his boxers slowly down his hips.

While Dean looks his fill, up and down and back up again, Cas starts to look a little shy, shifting on his heels where he stands. Goddammit, that’s so _cute_. Dean smiles at him—a plain, uncomplicated smile. There's been this thing in the back of his head for as long as Dean can remember: this itch, this idea that he could never quite verbalize. The itch is gone, quieted by a soothing presence, and that presence is Cas. Dean knows it as sure as he knows his own name. 

"Get down here," he says roughly.

Cas climbs back onto the bed, but Dean shifts so Cas can't just resume making Dean's brain explode one careful kiss at a time. Dean absolutely needs to get his hands all over Cas, right the fuck now.

Cas lets himself get toppled onto his back, and sinks to the bed with dark eyes. Lets Dean climb on top and kiss him, slow and heady, and then a little sloppier because why the hell not? Dean kisses a long trail down Cas's chest and stomach, laves on his hip bones again, gnaws occasionally on an arc of mouthwatering muscle, before his hand brushes mostly accidentally against the hot, hard thing that is Cas's erection. 

And then it's all he can think about.

Dean's given hand jobs before. Gotten them, from guys. And sure, they felt fine. Good enough. Nothing special, though. They never got naked; it was never anything but a rushed, sometimes messy affair.

He cradles Cas's cock in his palm, bare skin to bare skin, and when he carefully presses it up against Cas's belly, it's warm and thick and alive in his hand.

Cas groans, softly. The muscles in his thighs ripple, but he holds himself so still. When Dean tears his gaze away to look into his face, Cas is chewing on his lower lip.

"This okay?" Dean asks. It seems sort of ridiculous to ask. He still wants to, though.

Cas laughs, shakily. "Very."

He kisses Cas's shoulder before going back to staring at his hand. His fingers carefully feel along the soft skin, the way Cas’s cock is warmer than all the rest of him right now, the ridge on the underside where the head meets the shaft. It's all so interesting, and shockingly hot. Beneath him, Cas sucks in various shaky breaths between low moans. He’s even trembling.

When Dean does take the whole thing into his hand, it jumps, because Cas does an involuntary thrust into his fist before groaning loudly and biting his lip. Dean watches, fascinated, as his first upstroke seems to help a pearl of liquid squeeze out of the head. His thumb swipes it up gently, and he twists carefully on the downstroke to spread it around.

Cas groans so deep, Dean's dick can feel it.

It's everything like touching himself and nothing at all. The way he can see pleasure just racing across Cas's face is just as good as feeling it himself. The way Cas writhes under him when Dean tries a little move on him that he likes on himself, with a careful twist to gently pop the ridge of the head of his cock in and out of the careful circle of his fingers, makes Dean want to lick him everywhere.

Even... maybe even... fuck, Dean can hardly even think about it.

He stares at his hand moving on Cas's shaft in small, careful, exploring strokes, though, and feels Cas's eyes on him. Another slick of warmth beads up against his palm when he sweeps it over Cas’s slit, and the next stroke goes so easy Dean's the one who shudders.

"How," Dean rasps, still watching his hand slowly stroking up and down, twisting slightly now and then. "How did I live my whole life without this?" His voice catches with emotion.

A gentle hand touches his chin, turns his face towards Cas. "We're here, now," Cas says. "We met exactly when we were supposed to."

Dean blinks and Cas lifts up, his ab muscles contracting, the dick in Dean's hand moving into an aborted shallow thrust, so he can kiss him.

Dean thought the feeling of kissing Cas was good. Great. And the feeling of Cas's cock, heavy and smooth in his hand? Fucking awesome.

Getting both at once? Holy shit.

He feels his grip tighten a little, and worries about it for just about a heartbeat before Cas groans against his lips. He rolls to his side, carefully not dislodging Dean’s hand. 

The feeling of Cas's hand wrapping around his, the tension of his body as he holds himself up so they don't have to stop kissing, is two steps shy of glorious. 

Cas carefully, deliberately showing him their pace, their rhythm? Dean already knows it, feels it all the way up to his quickening pulse, the moment Cas starts. Cas doesn't have to show him for Dean to keep going just how he likes it.

But Dean doesn’t say anything. Just ‘cause he already knows how Cas might like it, doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy this—his hand around Cas’s cock, Cas's hand around his.

Dean wants to bite him, wants to lick him, wants... but that would all mean he'd have to stop doing what he is now, and no-one can make him do that.

A warm hand sneaks its way around Dean's cock —fingers callused, but still soft in all the right places. Not that he'd been paying attention to when Cas finally unwrapped his fingers from around Dean’s, because Dean had every intention of continuing the slow, even drag up and down Cas’s cock. 

Dean chokes with the sensation of Cas touching him, and finally loses track of their kiss. How Cas is even managing to focus, when all Dean wants is to close his eyes and feel every second of Cas's hand softly exploring, is a mystery. Cas lets himself lower the rest of the way onto his back.

Dean has almost managed to find some equilibrium when Cas strikes again, running a soft finger from his other hand down the seam of Dean’s balls before cupping them gently. Dean wants to try it all, but mostly he wants Cas to never, ever stop touching him like that: firm, but reverent; soft, but sure. Dean's eyes roll and his occupied hand stutters as Cas’s hand carefully lifts, and his other hand mirrors the stroke along Dean’s cock. Yeah, he’s had someone holding and supporting his balls before, but everything with Cas just feels like so much more.

"Is this good?" Dean asks, panting at the angle of Cas’s jaw, only occasionally nudging their lips together. "I'm pretty sure I can—" Cas encourages him with one long, smooth stroke, then another. "I can finish like this."

"Oh, yes. It's lovely, Dean," Cas sighs. He's still watching Dean through the dark fringe of his lashes when he flicks his thumb down the stripe of sensitivity leading from the head of Dean's cock down to his shaft.

Dean's hips jerk into the touch, the flash of sensation that bolts down his pelvis. His cock beads liquid on his tip, and he feels it roll down his shaft, rather than seeing it. Cas's fingertip gathers it up. When Cas's hands both lift from his skin, the cold he leaves behind is shaky, dazzling. Dean hand freezes on Cas's cock, and he's ready to beg.

Until he realizes Cas is raising his hand to his lips, studying the little drop on the tip of his finger. He licks it away, his tongue moving slowly over the curve of his knuckle.

Then he smiles, his eyes meeting Dean’s. “I realize it’s not safe sex, and that we should be responsible and put on condoms,” he murmurs. “But I _am_ an angel, and I like the way you taste.”

Okay, _now_ Dean's ready to beg.

"Fuck," Dean absolutely prays. "Fuck. Cas—that's. I need to—" He pushes Cas onto his back and scrambles down so fast, his knees nearly tangle with each other. Dean finds himself sprawled over Cas’s thighs, at eye level with Cas's heavy, flushed cock. 

He’s not sure which of their breathing is more uneven when he leans in and kisses it, softly. Then again. And again. With each press of lips and then, eventually, little licks and nuzzles, Dean finds his rhythm.

Above him, Cas trembles, wrecked. He groans Dean's name and a whole bunch of other compliments that wash over Dean like a cleansing water. When Dean finally, carefully, sucks the whole head into his mouth—just a shallow, almost gentle pull—he almost cries at how perfect the whole experience is.

This is something that Dean's never done. Sure, he's had it done _to_ him, and he knows the mechanisms of it, mostly. But the achy little stretch in his jaw as he carefully fits Cas in, careful to keep his teeth away, that's new. The taste of salt and skin and something that tingles—Dean's almost sure it’s Cas losing a bit of control of his angelness—is new. The deep, shaky sound of Cas moaning, his soft "oh, oh please, _yes_ " because Dean just made Cas beg... it's all so new, and Dean hopes it'll never stop feeling this way.

Cas doesn't push into his mouth at all—dammit, he's so sweet—and Dean just holds the head of him on his tongue, enjoying it, everything about this. When he rolls his gaze up Cas's body to see how he's doing, Cas is watching him. 

Cas whines, softly, when their eyes meet. Beside Dean’s shoulder, he hears the squeaking scrape of Cas's fingers clenching in bedsheets. And when Dean smiles up at him, lips tightening where they meet the shaft, Cas's head falls back like he can't hold it up anymore.

Dean's tongue gently presses at the space where the head meets the shaft. He's fascinated by the texture, the little bit of give. Cas shudders against him. Dean breathes in through his nose and inches down, slow and careful, before sliding back up and making sure to suck just a bit.

"Perfect," Cas husks out. "Dean, you are so perfect."

Dean's mouth is still watering, and each little shiver and shake he pulls out of Cas goes straight to his cock with a delicious achy clench. Dean wants to spend all day here, work out how to take in more than just this small mouthful of Cas. Maybe figure out how he wants to move his hands, how to touch. Maybe he can figure out what to touch without his entire brain blanking in delight and sexual tension.

A shy hand creeps into Dean's hair, but it's not demanding or guiding, it's just... holding. Like Cas feels just as unmoored as Dean does.

Cas's fingers brush his temples, his hairline, ruffle through the swirl at the top of his head. They tighten a little when Dean tries the first few careful, tentative motions up and down. Dean wraps his hand around the base to hold it up for his mouth, and that kind of helps—on the next bob, Cas tucks deeper against the back of his tongue. Okay, that does feel really strange, but it's not bad at all.

On the next slide downwards, though, Dean's lips meet the curl of his fingers, and that feels like a triumph. He moans, himself, before he thinks about how that might feel for Cas.

It's not a neat blowjob. It’s a little rough and shaky around the edges. But Dean wants to memorize each second of this—the weight of Cas on his tongue, the ache in his jaw, the hitch of Cas's breath and hips when Dean successfully meets his hand on almost every pass. It's so hot Dean might come just from this, from slowly sucking helpless sounds out of Cas.

A vague memory of something, a tidbit of a letter to Penthouse Dean once read probably over a decade ago, pops into his head. The hand not holding carefully, reverently, onto Cas's cock reaches out and gently cups his balls, slowly rolling them like Cas had. Cas sighs softly into it, but then Dean keeps going, slides his hand a little further back.

There's a spot, Dean knows it. Some chicks even found it on Dean, but now Dean desperately wants to find it on Cas. He presses with an index finger into the tight stretch of skin behind Cas’s sack on his next careful downward bob.

Cas jolts and then practically sobs in pleasure.

Cas's legs spread wider like he's giving Dean better access, and for the first time, his hips tilt up against Dean's mouth. It should be uncomfortable—it does nudge Cas against his throat—but even that little clench of motion feels like a triumph.

"Sorry," Cas gasps. "Sorry, I, that's—"

Dean would laugh, but his mouth is full. He thinks his chuckle still tremors around Cas, though. Apologies, his ass.

Dean carefully rubs a deep circle against his newest favorite spot with the tip of his finger—the skin is stretched tighter, now that Cas has his legs spread and one knee cocked upwards next to Dean’s shoulder—but keeps his head bobbing up and down slowly to the same rhythm. 'Cause fuck, yeah, he's always been coordinated. Cas all but drips onto his tongue, thick salt, heady.

"I, I want..." Cas groans. “Please!”

Dean suddenly discovers an untapped reserve of patience. He keeps up his careful rhythm of slow bobs and deep, rolling presses with his finger against Cas’s perineum while Cas sorts out his words. Cas starts to shift his hips back and forth—short, careful nudges up into Dean's mouth on the downstroke, little wriggles back against his finger on the way back up.

"Dean," Cas eventually gasps. "I want you to fuck me."

 _That_ stops Dean cold. His jaw drops, loose and floppy; Cas's cock pops out and taps back against his belly as Dean lets go. "Sorry, what now?" he blurts.

Cas's chest heaves as he catches his breath. "Sorry. Sorry. Not today. Too—" but he shudders a little like the very idea gives him pleasure. Dean can sort of relate. "Too complicated. For now. But I have an idea."

Dean can like ideas. “Yeah?”

Suddenly, Cas's hand is gripping around a familiar plastic container with a purple top. Dean squints. "Hey. Did you angel mojo my lube from my bag?"

Cas blushes. "To be fair, I actually brought your bag here last night. I just got too distracted to tell you."

Dean can relate. He can so relate. Even though all they did was cuddle. (And yes, it was cuddling, and Dean can admit that inside his own damned head.) 

But his brain is still spinning around in circles, with Cas's words echoing in his ears. _I want you to fuck me,_ and Dean had never heard anything so glorious and so completely terrifying at the same time.

It wasn't that Dean hasn't thought about anal stuff before, but it wasn't like it was something he ever, y'know... dwelled on. Dean wasn't ever sure it was something he even wanted to try, because it just seemed like a whole fucking lot. And maybe not even all that comfortable? 

But the idea of being _in_ Cas, or having Cas in him...

Shit, Dean isn't... he never thought he'd think this, 'cause God knows Dean's no blushing virgin, but he’s not ready. He doesn't know if he can deal with that idea, right now. It's too much. It’s not that he doesn’t want it, but he sort of wants it a little _too_ much. He wants to make this all good for Cas, and he has no fucking idea how he'd even do that. With. You know. _that_. He eyes the lube like it might explode. 

Cas breaks out into a tiny little grin. "Nervous?" the smug asshole teases.

Dean snorts. So what if he is? "Alright, wise guy, what's your idea?" Cas already said ‘too complicated,’ so it’s not the first thing that came to Dean’s mind.

Cas blinks innocently at him. "Do you know what intercrural sex is?"

Dean blinks back, startled. He's not as dumb as he knows he lets on, he knows, and he knows a lot about sex. But... "Uh... no, actually."

Cas smiles, looking pleased. "The thing about erections," how does he make that word sound hot? "Is that they're pretty easy to please most times." He opens the bottle and squeezes some lube into his hand. "Someplace slick," he wraps his hand unceremoniously around Dean's dick and gives it two or three glorious slides of slick palm—just enough to renew the buzzing under Dean's skin. "Someplace warm," Dean almost whines when Cas lets go of his cock, but Cas squeezes some more lube out and then, in what has to be the most elegant, awkward motion, spreads his legs to reach his own thighs. "And someplace tight. Given all three, and the rest? Will follow along presently."

Dean watches, mesmerized, as Cas slicks up his own thighs and taint and balls. The sight’s so captivating that it takes Dean a few seconds to put it all together. Also, how does Cas do that, with the words, when there's all of _this_ happening?

Dean swallows. "So. Okay. How?"

Cas smiles, kisses him briefly and then settles back down on the bed, facing away from Dean and giving him an excellent view of his ass. He looks back at Dean, over his shoulder. "Like this. Okay?"

Dean's throat clicks when he swallows, and it takes a couple of tries before he can make something come out that doesn't sound like it's crawling out of a dungeon or falling from the sky. "Oh. Okay. Wow."

Okay, that wasn't what he meant to say.

Cas has a dimple in his cheek. It flashes when he grins, the corners of his eyes creasing sweetly. How did Dean never see that before now? "Hmm?"

Oh, like the asshole doesn't know that Dean's brain is leaking out of his ears right now just at the thought. When Dean hauls himself up and lies down behind Cas, it's partially because he's not really sure he's going to be able to hold himself up much longer, and partially because he’s so tempted to just sort of fall on the angel and try to lick him like a Tootsie Pop.

They rearrange, but it's Cas who reaches behind himself and tucks Dean's cock in the warm crease of his thighs, pressing back against him to slot him in. And oh. 

Oh, fuck.

It's slick, it's warm, it's tight. It's everything Cas said.

It's so much more.

Dean ducks his face into the back of Cas's neck and groans. He's afraid to move—he's gonna embarrass himself if he does. "Shit. Shit, how'd you know...?"

Cas takes the hand that Dean didn’t even realize he wrapped around to rest on Cas’s stomach. He threads their fingers together and pulls it up to kiss their combined knuckles. "I know you."

Dean breathes out into the truth of that statement, but the thing is, he knows Cas too. It's a little blurry and piecemeal, but Dean just knows things about him, sometimes. They fit together, even in the awkward ways.

He finally pulls himself together enough to give a tentative thrust. The pull back curls his toes, and the next push inwards sparks down his spine. It’s not as careful, and he can feel the head of his cock pressing against Cas in the same space his fingers did before. Cas shudders and Dean darts desperate kisses across his shoulders.

"Yeah?" Dean asks, but he's not even sure what he's looking for an answer for.

"Mmm, yes, just..." Cas shifts back against him, tucking their joined hands against his lips. Dean can feel the seam of them parting; Cas is fucking panting against his fingertips. "Just what I wanted. More, please?"

God, he's so polite, and that shouldn't do it for Dean the way it really, really does. Dean sets his hips and thrusts harder, rubbing against him, between thick, strong thighs.

He never thought this might feel good for someone getting it—okay, he never thought of doing this at all—but Cas's soft sounds make it clear he's into it. Damn.

On the next push, Cas's hips nudge back, and that changes the angle a little—the head of Dean's cock slips over his target and slides forward, bumping soft and firm against the thin, delicate skin covering the back of Cas's balls. They both jump a little. Cas makes a small startled sound.

New for him, too? "Awesome," Dean breathes.

In retaliation, Cas sucks one of Dean's fingertips into his mouth.

Dean shudders, his next thrust going a little wilder than planned. It's fine though, all fine, because Cas also shudders, then sighs around Dean's finger and rolls his hips back again. Together, they find a slow, slick slide of a rhythm. Dean noses into the skin of the shoulder and neck nearest him, sucking at it whenever he's got enough brain cells to do it. Mostly, though he's brainless, one big, slow nerve of desire and pleasure.

The muscles of Cas’s back flex and bunch against his stomach, his ass presses back into the cradle of Dean's pelvis, and Dean's cock is so hard and so happy just thrusting between those perfect, perfect thighs that Dean might just die of it. They're both making sounds, just small, quiet little grunts and huffs, occasionally a muttered curse. Dean slowly starts to lose his mind to it all.

They're slipping and sliding, now, they’ve got the right rhythm, and God, it really does feel like fucking. Dean can feel his muscles tightening up, closer and closer. His grunts have turned into small, airless gasps; he already had to pull his finger out of Cas's soft, hot mouth because he was getting there too fast. The firm muscle of Cas's thighs squeezing him tight is going to get him off pretty damned soon—he knows it.

Wait. Wait, wait.

Dean slows himself down, even though his back strains to do it. He ends up pressed so close to Cas that he's not really sure anymore where he starts and Cas begins, and he already can't imagine any sex feeling much better than this. But...

It's not just about him.

"Cas?" he mumbles.

Cas groans, and wriggles. "Don't stop," he complains.

"Won't, I won't, I'm just... I'm close." Dean pries open his eyes; he didn't even realize he’d squeezed them shut. The room is gloriously bright with the morning. He can feel his cock throbbing unhappily at the pause. "Can you get off? Like this?"

Cas hesitates. "No, I don't think so, but I don't care," he growls, finally.

Well, Dean does.

Dean has absolutely no idea what Cas did with the small bottle of lube, but he has a feeling that won't be too much of an issue. He carefully untangles their fingers and presents his palm. "Lick."

He can literally feel Cas's brain short-circuit briefly, Cas going tense against him, before a warm, wet and fucking agile tongue is all over Dean's hand. Wow, that does not help his self-control, but Dean holds on with all of his might until his hand is positively soaked.

Dean wiggles around and hooks his chin over Cas's shoulder, just enough to look down and get a good look at what he's trying to do. It’s also a near-mistake, because it shifts his hips slightly into another slip-slide of pleasure, _and_ it gives him a good look at Cas's flushed, drooling, incredibly excited cock.

"Damn, Cas, aren't you pretty," Dean blurts out. He'd be embarrassed about how sloppy and husky he sounds, especially since he's talking about another guy's cock, but shit, that is so hot. It's pretty damned obvious that Cas is as into this as Dean is. That this feels _good_ for him. He's not just paying lip service.

Dean has no idea if that's because this is just what Cas likes, or because of their ‘profound bond,’ or what it is, but damn. Oh, damn, Cas is so wet that Dean maybe didn't even need the spit at all.

Cas shifts back against him, and Dean thinks he might be blushing. "Oh," he murmurs. "Thank you?"

When Dean fumbles forward and gently takes him into hand, trying to keep his cock balanced between Cas’s thighs, though, Cas's shoulders both jerk backwards against him. "Dean!" he gasps. "You don't have to—"

But the way his thighs clench and shake around where Dean's wedged between them makes that a lie.

"I really think I do," Dean husks, loving the small little shivers that run through Cas as Dean tries to remember the grip and speed he'd been shown just a little while ago. Well. Possibly not even twenty minutes, but definitely a lifetime, before.

It all takes a minute to really coordinate. Dean's still on edge. Though the cliff receded slightly while he concentrated on Cas, he's still not far from it. Eventually, Dean figures out that he can leave his fist mostly still and let Cas fuck into it when Dean's thrust carries them forward.

Cas moans, softly, and that's when Dean knows he's figured out the timing. At the next firm thrust, Cas quakes in his arms, neck arching back to rest his head on Dean’s shoulder. "Yes, please," he whispers.

Dean's getting real close again, and the rhythm of this is so damned perfect. Dean doesn't know if he wants to close his eyes or just keep watching, and the decision's taken out of his hands when Cas reaches down to grip at him, a strong hand clutching at Dean's forearm deliciously with a soft scrape of short, blunt nails. Dean peers down and watches the head of Cas's cock peeking in and out of his fist, flushed and red.

"Cas," he groans, and nips the tight skin of Cas's neck. "Cas, sweetheart, I—"

"Dean, close... close your eyes, you should—" Cas is almost squirming against him, and it's tightening and squeezing his thighs around Dean's dick in a way that is so fucking fantastic.

A lamp sparks and pops loudly beside them. Dean's not sure what that's about, but he's too gone to want to stop.

Dean wants to keep staring at Cas’s cock moving in and out of his hand, but some part of his brain must be thinking beyond 'fuck, God, more, more,' and he ducks his head into the curve of Cas's shoulder instead.

They're reduced to near breathless grunts, working together to—to—fuck. They're definitely fucking. It's slow and intense; Dean's cock has never felt a nicer place than between Cas's thighs and Cas feels perfect in his hand, throbbing and velvety and alive. Dean is willing to rewrite all of existence if he gets to keep this.

Something else nearby flashes again, but fuck if Dean cares. Heat is pooling in his cock, hot and sparking, and pleasure is building from the soles of his feet upwards. Cas's hand on his forearm tightens further; Dean thinks he might have bruises later, and that just makes it better.

"Dean," Cas groans, low and gritty and a reverberation all down Dean's soul. "Dean, I'm, I'm..."

Dean's toes curl, and he presses his knees harder behind Cas's, wrapped around him like he can pull Cas into his own body. "Cas..." he agrees, breathless and wanting Cas's pleasure almost as much as his own. He didn't think it was possible to get more intense than when they were in the car, but that doesn't even compare to whatever this is. "C'mon, sweetheart, c'mon—"

Cas is nearly silent when he comes, because his whole body talks for him—arching, shaking, eloquent and pulsing in Dean's hand. Something that sounds like electricity might crackle, but that might be Dean's imagination. Dean's hand sweeps over the head of Cas’s cock because he loses his grip for a second, and the next jolt of come hits his palm before he gets his hand in place again. The next stroke down Cas’s cock is so easy and wet that it’s a glide.

Holy shit, Dean did that. He got Cas off. The wonder of it punches him almost as hard as every muscle in his pelvis tightening, his balls pressing up because he needs to come so bad, and then he's there, too.

One of Cas’s last shudders tightens his thighs just right, and the first spurt of come leaving Dean’s cock smacks him with pleasure. He bites at Cas's skin to contain his scream. It's so good. So fucking good. His whole body orgasms—his skin, his hair, his toes, his dick— and all of him shudders and moans. 

Cas reaches behind himself to rest one hand onto Dean's hip, helping him with those last few shaking thrusts, and Dean loses track of everything but the slick slide of dick as it presses so sweetly into and against Cas.

By the end, they're both shaking with aftershocks, panting quietly. Dean finally looks up, blinking. The first thing he focuses on is what he can see of Cas's sweaty face, glowing and enraptured. His eyes are closed; he looks like he’s savoring the feelings, those last little quivers. 

Dean understands completely.

"I think," Dean eventually pants when he finally finds some balance, but he's not letting go of Cas just yet. Can't. Won't. "If we try anything more complicated than that, I may die when I come."

"Won't know until we try," Cas answers, sleepily.

Dean blinks. His eyelashes are kind of sticky. Huh. "Uh..."

Dark eyelashes flutter as Cas peeks at him over his shoulder with one blue eye. "Oh," he mumbles, sounding sheepish. "That came out wrong." He scrunches up his nose in a manner that's so damned cute that Dean wants to kiss it. So he does. "You know what I mean."

"Uh-huh," Dean agrees, but he doesn't raise his head. They're both sticky, naked, and covered in come, but Dean's pretty sure his legs won't hold him if he tries to get up to grab a washcloth.

Cas waves a hand, and all of a sudden they're... not sticky and covered with come.

Still naked, though.

"Wow. I'm likin' the mojo," Dean grins against Cas's shoulder, then looks down to admire the print of his teeth in it. He bit pretty hard. The crescent of marks is still there, though he can already see the edges starting to fade.

"It has its benefits," Cas agrees, then sighs. "We will have to get up and meet Sam, soon."

Yeah, they will. But right now, they’re still molded together like spoons in a drawer. They’re both warm and shivery and with Cas’s ass still pressed against him as he shifts around, Dean almost, almost thinks he can get hard again. 

Well. Maybe not.

But still. The thought’s there.

Getting up, Dean thinks, is a problem for 'in a few hours' Dean and Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Until the day breaks, and the shadows flee'  
> — Song of Solomon 2:17, King James version  
> 
> 
> **Ami:** Uh. So uh. The word count on that scene surprised both of us? This is when I knew Tia and I were in trouble, though admittedly it wasn't till chapter 10 or so I declared us a fanfic OSHA violation waiting to happen.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Ami:** Okay we're in it now. 40k just to establish the basics. WHEW. Good thing we're not wordy!

It's a loose-limbed and well-rested Dean Winchester that Cas pops just outside the motel room that he and Sam originally were sharing. Dean’s bag thumps onto the ground by their feet like it’s followed them through space. How does that even work, anyway?

At least Cas, having been human, seems to understand basic boundaries. Like doors. And he doesn't do things like scan the room for 'private' issues, and just bamf his way in when he finds none. Cas, Dean’s pretty sure, would understand why this is an issue, rather than looking at Dean all irritated when he complains.

(Fucking poor shmuck Inias.)

Despite the fact that Dean uses his own key, he's still greeted with a loaded gun by Sam. Good kid. They exchange pleasantries (and by pleasantries Dean means holy water, silver and iron). After that's sorted, Dean peeks back outside and gestures for Cas to come in.

Sam looks shocked. Ruby looks, well, Dean can't really tell with her on most days.

Sam exclaims, "You're dead!"

Castiel cocks his head. "Exploded, I'm afraid, but no, not dead." His smile is gentle. "In my native form I'm made out of light. I've gotten fond of this one, though."

Dean sees Sam processing that, taken aback. Ruby sneers. "I knew it! I knew there was something off with him!"

Cas arches one sassy little eyebrow. "From you, I think I take that as a compliment."

Dean has trouble not jumping him right then and there. "Okay, settle.” He flaps a hand in Cas’s direction. “He's an angel, they're all a little off." 

(That earns Dean his own sassy eyebrow and the suspicion he might pay for it later.)

Sam makes a choking noise and Dean turns back to see his brother’s face do that thing he does when he makes a horrifying realization: jaw dropped, cheeks tense, and eyes wide. "Are you… are you _possessing_ your own brother?"

Cas actually looks shocked and offended, eyes snapping into hard diamonds. _"No."_ He says it with a finality Dean knows he'd never throw at Dean himself if Dean were asking. Cas has always explained, whenever Dean’s asked.

Sam, for what it's worth, takes that at face value. But he still holds out the holy water with narrowed eyes.

(He's got a point. Dean didn't test Cas or anything. He just... he _knew_.)

Cas, patiently, lets Sam sprinkle holy water on him, and touch his arm with silver and iron. "You can try to cut me if you like," he says, almost apologetically, "but it would ruin the edge."

Sam tries anyway. The noise isn't quite 'clunk,' but the knife goes into Cas's arm and comes away without leaving any blood behind it.

Sam looks at the tip of the knife. Even from here Dean can tell it dulled.

But Dean could print Cas’s skin with his teeth, his fingernails. Dean definitely does have bruises on his forearm, under his flannel, and they feel better than any bruises he's had in his life. Heh.

Ruby's looking at this situation with her normal little sneer. "Well, well. So what's your role in this little party?"

Cas glances at her before looking to Sam. "I'm glad you're alright," he says. "And I..." his jaw tightens, and he loses some of his calm steadiness. "I'm here to make amends. For what my brothers have done."

Sam only relaxes marginally, and Dean has to fight the urge to step protectively in front of Cas.

"They've treated both you and your brother abominably," Cas continues. "I can't do much about that, but at least I can do something to help mitigate that in the future." He steps toward Sam.

Sam, seemingly automatically, takes a step back. Dean tries not to take offense. He gets it, he does. Sam’s being smart, considering that angels were also the ones who just kidnapped Dean. It feels weirdly personal, though.

Cas pauses before trying again. Sam’s glare stops him, and he huffs in seeming exasperation. "I'm going to ward your ribs against all angels,” Cas informs him. “Like I did Dean's."

Dean starts, flashes of sense memory passing before his eyes: Cas’s lips on his collarbone as his finger traced along Dean’s ribs; the warm sparks of pain down his tailbone as Cas sucked on his neck "Hey now—what? No!" he yelps.

Sam looks alarmed, looking over Cas's head to meet Dean's eyes. His eyes go dark and sharp with suspicion. "Wait. If even Dean didn't want it done—no way."

Dean not wanting it done really wasn't the problem there.

Cas sighs with what looks like exasperation. "It will only require a touch, Sam. And this is important."

Dean clenches his teeth. He can't deny that—and he knows it isn't sexual, wouldn't be, with Sam, but it's just... even just remembering the careful intimacy of it makes his blood run warmer, slower. "He’s right,” he finally grits out. “Do you, uh, should me and Ruby leave?"

Ruby arches both eyebrows. Sam's eyes are now wide with alarm. "Why would you have to _leave_?!"

Dean sees Cas's eyes widen, too, like he's just realized something important, and then he chuckles—softly, under his breath. "Your brother made some… unmanly yelps,” Cas says, solemnly. “He's trying to preserve your dignity."

Dean startles, then scowls. "What the—"

Cas moves, sharp and sudden: a hand on Sam's breastbone and then off.

Sam curses forcefully, and then rubs where Cas's fingers were.”Ow,” he grumbles.

"Done," Cas says, tilting his chin just far enough to meet Dean's eyes. His lips quiver, just once, in a little smile before they straighten out again.

Dean manages to clamp his mouth shut before Sam looks back up. He doesn't manage to stop glaring at Cas before Sam catches him at it, though.

Look, Dean's not mad at the way Cas chose to mark him up. He's not mad about it at all—Dean's not that stupid or that ungrateful. God, that felt so good. 

It's not his fault he didn't know that Cas wouldn't have to _fondle_ Sam to do it to him, too.

The smirk that Cas gives him before his expression smooths out doesn't help, either. Dammit, that full mouth is made for that look.

Sam gives them a suspicious back-and-forth, but it's kind of fucked-up that Dean giving Cas the stink-eye seems to settle him down, some. "So," he says, neutrally. "Heaven's out to get us, too?"

Cas steps back and falls into place near Dean; as he brushes past, their pinkies touch, briefly, gently. It’s only an instant, but Dean gets a quick hit of something. He's not sure he can qualify it: an apology, maybe? Or perhaps just a need to reach out. Either way, Dean's not complaining.

"Unfortunately," Cas says, finding a spot on the nearby countertop to lean against. "At least some angels are intent on helping the apocalypse along. And based on what orders are coming down, and who seems to be simply following them versus issuing or truly understanding them, it must be at least a significant section of the leadership."

Cas crosses his arms and sighs. It makes him seem slightly more human and approachable. Dean has the feeling that's on purpose. "Take everything the others have told you with a grain of salt. I don’t know everything, but Dean’s been their main point of contact with humans. When there’s an appropriate moment, he and I can take some time to sort through what we know."

Dean nods, but also, he’s getting the feeling there's going to be inappropriate heavy petting happening at the same time as this ‘sorting.’ (He's not opposed to the idea.)

Sam looks at Ruby, and Ruby looks back at him.

It reminds Dean a little too much of the looks that he and Cas share, and that idea is making him just a little uncomfy.

Then Ruby says, "See?" and that's definitely uncomfy.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean scoffs.

Ruby barely glances at him, all her attention focused on Sam. "That angels can't be trusted. Why should he?” She flicks her fingers towards Cas, but doesn’t even look at him. “For all we know, he's some kind of Heavenly double agent."

Dean bites down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood, because the first thing that sprung to mind were the words of the exorcism he's just barely got memorized. "Because _you're_ doing this all out of the goodness of your black little heart, right?"

Ruby snorts. "Hey, I'm out to save my own skin from the bad boys down below. What's his excuse?"

Cas's shoulders stiffen and his jaw clenches. Dean knows whatever he's struggling to say is going to be a doozy. "I… rebelled," he bites out. "Because Heaven was—is wrong." Another sharp breath seems to push out of his nose. The words don't seem to want to come out; Dean suspects it's the company more than the content. "The why… it wouldn’t matter to them. That they’re wrong. They won’t change. But because I rebelled? In their eyes, I am no better... than Lucifer."

That's a bomb to drop on all of them and even Ruby seems to have no comeback for that.

"Whose side do you believe I would be on after that?" Cas seems to have found some focus again. He pushes off the countertop and brushes past Dean again; his fingertips barely touch Dean's hip, but he feels them, hot, like the most pleasant brand he could imagine. "The forces of Heaven are not particularly clever—nor do they give humans this much credit. I've hidden both Sam and Dean from them in ways that will require greater creativity than most in the host will ever display to get around. I'm on the side of humanity. I’m on the side of the _world._ " With each word Cas's voice gets darker and graver. He stares pointedly at Ruby. "Stop pretending we don't have just as much, if not more, to worry about from _you._ Your double agent status is also up in the air, as far as I'm concerned, and I don't need an ancient Sumerian blade to kill one of your kind.” He bares his teeth in something barely a smile. “So back. The hell. Off."

Dean's not sure who's going to break the silence, because he can't exactly move from where he's standing without making his hard-on all the more obvious. Also, because he just got really conscious of the fact that he's got an angel blade in his gear, now, and they're going to have to figure out a way to explain that.

A little to his surprise, it's Sam who steps up, walking between Cas and Ruby to break the line of sight before someone bursts into flame. "Okay, okay," he says, and it's not clear which of them he's talking to. "Look, we don't have a case right now. And we can't fight a war on both fronts unless we split up the research."

Ruby nods, tightly, her arms crossed over her chest. She looks like she's trying not to be scared. Good. Dean's seen what angels can do to demons, and she seems to be remembering that, too. "Lilith is our priority."

Cas blinks, slowly, and his shoulders settle. He glances at Dean. "Then we can share what we know."

Yup, there's definitely going to be heavy petting.

There's a brief, but tense, silence. Cas sighs the most put-upon sigh Dean has ever witnessed, and goes first. He talks about the seals being broken and how Heaven never seems to manage to keep on top of them. Sixty-six out of six hundred-some-odd seals seems like an impossible task... until you remember that there are tens of thousands of angels waiting to do their jobs.

"I've seen them do this before: distract a battlefield commander who was just a hair too good at their job." Cas shrugs, looking away, and then glancing briefly at Dean. "I've seen them redirect what should have been the ‘right’ plan to something that fit their notion of convenience... It's what makes me think the emphasis on Lilith, alongside their strange incompetence about the other seals, is suspect. Lilith and her troops alone can’t be responsible for warding off the whole host of Heaven."

When put like that, Dean can't help but agree, but Sam looks ready to spit nails. He really wants Lilith—wants to make her pay for what he sees as the death and torture of his brother. 

Dean wouldn’t expect anything different from Sam, but Dean himself is of two minds about it: yeah, looking back they were set up for it, both of them. But Dean made his own decisions. They were crappy decisions, but they were his.

Sam and Ruby don't have much new information since Dean got bibbity-bobbity-booed out of the picture, and Sam's weirdly jittery—Dean doesn't think it has to do with Cas. But he can't say exactly why it is, either.

"So what's Heaven's next move?" Sam finally asks.

Cas considers. "It would depend on whether they still consider you two a threat or a nuisance... no offense," he says, apologetically. He doesn't reach out to touch Dean, but his eyes do it for just a moment, in a stroke almost as warm as his hand. "I don't think they would intentionally sabotage the seals, though. There are still angels that are loyal to God's edicts. There must be those that still believe that we are meant to love humanity and be shepherds, not wolves."

"Yeah?" Sam says. Dean's not sure if it's hopeful or accusatory. He's taking the news hard—not that Dean can blame him. Godzilla and Mothra. He ain't wrong about that.

"Of course," Cas answers, gently.

The gentleness of it seems to undo something tight and angry in Sam. Dean can relate. Sam sighs and slumps forward into a chair, resting his elbows on his knees. "And what about Alastair, he—"

"Will never trouble anyone again, in this existence or the next," Cas answers, smoothly, before Dean has to. "It wasn't an idle threat when I said I don't need an ancient knife to wipe their like out of existence."

He doesn't look at Ruby.

Sam looks up, his eyes going harsh and bright. Fanatic-bright. "What about Lilith, though?"

Dean doesn't imagine Cas's reluctance or annoyance at the question. It's all there on his face to see.

"No," Cas says slowly, "I do not think I could kill her. She's the first demon. I’m only a seraph."

Something in Sam's face clicks at this, but he says nothing.

"I have some ideas, though," Cas offers, and sighs. "I don't know you well, Sam, but I know enough to feel sorry for anyone who tries to get in your way. Even Lilith.. But please, refrain from anything too rash for now.” He doesn’t look away from Sam’s eyes, but it’s not an accusation. “All I ask is that you don't let her determine the time and place of your confrontation. Please? Death is a powerful component in many spells; God knows what she might plan as revenge for losing."

Maybe it’s the ‘please,’ or maybe it’s because they all know about deals that blow up in everyone’s faces. But Sam actually nods, small and tight. He and Ruby go off to research.

"Research." Right. 

Not that he and Cas are likely to be much better. Dean can be honest about that, at least.

Cas is frowning, though, when Sam and Ruby step out the door. It doesn't look like he's in the mood for hanky panky. "Dean, your brother..."

Dean sighs. "Sorry about him. He's got reason to be suspicious."

Cas waves that off. There's something ancient and cold and sharp in his expression. Dean saw the smallest flicker of that when Cas went in and took care of Alastair. "You're right. He has reason to be suspicious of me. It's not that. It's..." His mouth purses. "He's... tainted."

Dean swallows. "Yeah. Well, no. That's... It's a long story. There was a yellow-eyed demon..."

Cas shakes his head. "No. I know the story of the chosen children. This…” he shakes his head and meets Dean’s eyes. “It's newer than that. Fresher."

Dean takes a moment to really think about it. "He said he was off the demon blood." It hurts to actually say those words out loud. He's barely even spoken about it to Bobby. Somehow, it's easier with Cas.

"If he is, he stopped very recently," Cas says. His eyes are downcast, and suddenly, he looks older than is possible. "I'm sorry, Dean."

Anger bubbles up in his veins. Dean reaches for the angel blade. "I'll kill her."

Cas lays a gentle hand on his right shoulder. "I mean," he says slowly, "that while I do not trust her, that sort of power might be the only way to kill Lilith right now."

Dean stiffens. "You can't mean that," he says, coldly. He thought there was nothing that could make him want to step back from Cas, but right now he doesn't know what he wants: to lean into him and let his head fall to Cas's shoulder, or step back and defend his brother.

The hand on his shoulder is so gentle, and he knows Cas would let go if Dean pulled away.

Cas blows out a small breath. "I don't know," he says, carefully. His thumb rubs at Dean's tight, tense joint. "I know it is _a_ way to kill Lilith: like with like. I think it's possible that angels more powerful than me know another. They may know more of the plan."

Dean grasps for that little bit of hope. "You think any of them will talk to you?"

Cas chews on his lower lip, eyes distant. "Maybe," he finally admits. "I have... a few friends remaining. Not many, though. I'll have to think about it."

Dean finds a smile in himself. "Aw, well, who can resist you, Cas."

Cas rolls his eyes. "Let's get you some food," he says. "Then I can start investigating."

Dean blinks. "Do you... uh... do you even need to eat anymore?"

"Need?" Cas shakes his head. "Not currently. Later, I may." There's something there that Dean can't quite read yet, though. He doesn't think Cas is hiding anything from him on purpose, but there may be something he just doesn't want to talk about yet. "Will I enjoy eating, still? Perhaps. I haven’t tried it, I'll have to see. My grace is…" he looks at Dean with the fondest look he's ever seen—a little tip of his chin sideways, the barest curve of a smile. "It's different around you."

Dean smiles, a little hungry and a lot curious. "I can get behind enjoying food."

They take the Impala to a nearby diner and find themselves seated in a booth in a corner. Dean presses his knee into Cas's leg; under the table, Cas just hooks his foot around Dean's and tugs him in closer, pinning Dean’s ankle between his feet. Dean laughs and shakes his head. Unless anyone looks really closely, it's nothing anyone would comment on. They get burgers and share a huge plate of loaded fries. Dean feels the weight of the world lift off his shoulders bite by bite, at least briefly.

(Cas finds out he still likes burgers and fries. Thank God, ‘cause Dean’s not sure all the angel mojo in the world would’ve been worth losing that.)

After, Cas kisses him softly in Baby’s front seat, regret tinging every movement. "I should go,” he sighs. “I need to start putting feelers out for information. If you need me, pray."

Dean closes his eyes and savors the last moment of contact, one hand cupping Cas's cheek, gently.

Cas turns his face, and he presses his lips against Dean's fingers and palm in three soft kisses: one to thumb, one to fingertip, one to the very center. Then he's gone with a soft flap of wings, disappearing from under Dean's hand like he was never there.

Dean takes a deep breath, and puts his hands on the steering wheel.

Cas'll be back. Dean can feel it. He just... knows it.

Over the next week or so, with a rougarou in Texas and a chupacabra in New Mexico, they're a little too busy for Dean to think about how crazy this is—how he spent the last few months pining for someone he thought was dead, how easy it was to fall into caring all over again. 

Or maybe he never stopped caring.

Sam doesn't mention Cas. Well, no shocker.

Before Dean sleeps every night, though, he does close his eyes. He prays. Not for Cas to come back—he gets it, the sooner they figure this shit out, the sooner the world doesn't end.

No, just to check in. Just to say "Hey, we're good" or "had the damned best milkshake, you gotta try one" or "Sam glued his fingers to his hair, wonder how that happened? Heh."

He doesn't hear an answer, but sometimes, if it’s real quiet, he feels a warm pulse through the scar on his shoulder—like laughter.

He and Sam handle another couple of cases over the next couple of weeks, and it takes them all the way up in Wyoming. Finally, even Sam calls uncle and they find a decent motel at the edge of a medium sized city where they can relax. There’s nothing in the paper that looks like something of theirs. Sam slips out with some sort of museum in mind. Dean's pretty sure Sam, at least, believes it even if Dean's also sure Sam is gonna go off and do _other_ things as well.

However, as Dean closes his eyes in his empty motel room and prays to Cas, he finds he can't care all that much just yet. He's not exactly pining, but he does miss the way it feels to have Cas in the same room as him. After a quick prayer and a mental wink, Dean grabs his laundry.

Between one breath and the next, he feels a wave of pressure that seems to raise the hairs at the back of his neck, and his heart kicks up. Dean feels Cas come into the laundromat in the half-second between the really dirty and the regular dirty load. 

Cas sits down next to Dean like it’s been minutes, not weeks, and kicks the side of Dean’s shoe gently with the toe of one leather boot. "I do not miss laundry."

Not so much as a ‘hello,’ this time. Dean doesn’t even need it. He does wonder, briefly, why Cas has come to visit now, but a wave of tired anxiety with a side of frustration hits Dean, and he can take some educated guesses.

"Really?" Dean's smiling, a small happy smile. His body feels more alive already. "I dunno, I find it kind of soothing."

Cas laughs softly and looks down at his clothes. "Jimmy and I always used to trade chores. He did the laundry; I did the dishes. It worked out well for both of us." He shakes his head, and the edge of his smile is sweet and rueful. "It's... a little strange."

"Swapping chores? Nah, man, I bet Sam and I would do that. If, y'know. We had normal chores." Gun maintenance doesn't count, and Dean doesn't let Sam near Baby's engine. Though maybe the whole research thing counts, 'cause in their world, that _is_ kind of the chore that they get and that Dean just plain doesn’t want.

Cas shakes his head, his shoe rubbing in a soft sweet scrape against the side of Dean's. "No, that’s not what I’m talking about." He looks up at the laundromat, squinting gently as he looks into the fluorescent overheads. Dean, indulging himself, glances around and, real quick, runs a thumb down the side of Cas’s cheek before pulling it away. "I was referring to having both the memories of, well, my human life and... everything else. Everything I've... been?" He smiles and touches Dean's knee, as quickly as Dean brushed his face. "These memories are among the better ones, though."

Dean reaches over and tugs gently at the edge of Cas’s suit. "Is that what's up with the angelwear, huh?" he teases, gently. The dryers and washers swish and rumble around them. "Man, this thing is like two sizes too big for you, what're you hiding under there?" Dean hasn’t met a lot of angels, but their clothes seem to mostly fit, and none of them rock the trench coat like Cas does.

Cas ducks his head and a slight blush graces his cheeks. "Oh. No, this was… it was self-defense. Not from angels. I was a very young professor." He shrugs, folding his hands between his knees. "And then after a while, it just became comfortable."

That is the most endearing thing Dean has ever heard. So there’s no real explanation for why it also makes him want to snarl and mark up Cas with a big neon sign that screams 'Dean Winchester's, fuck off.' Cas looks at him out of the corner of his eye with a knowing glint, and Dean has the grace to feel slightly embarrassed about it.

(Slightly.)

Without another word, but a few knee knocks and the occasional brush of fingers, Cas joins Dean in folding his clothes. Dean pulls the pile of flannels towards him. One of them static shocks him as he shakes it out, and he mutters "Sonofabitch!"

When he looks over, though, Cas has relocated the other half of the pile on the folding table back towards himself. He's holding one up in front of him, a little smile on his lips. Dean remembers, with a little lick of his lower lip, just how a flannel with almost the same pattern of blue background and thin white crosshatches looked over Cas's shoulders, covering his wrists.

"You can have it, if you want," he says, with a little chuckle. So he likes the idea of Cas in his clothes, ain't nothin' wrong with that. "That pattern looks damned good on you."

For a moment, Cas looks tempted, but then he shakes his head a little regretfully. "I wouldn't have anywhere to put it," he murmurs, rubbing the flannel between his fingertips again before folding it up and putting it down on Dean's pile. He picks up another one and looks at Dean's basket with a soft laugh. "You really like them."

"Hey, we can't all be fancy professor types in suits!" Dean teases back. Then he leans a hip on the table. "Hey... you know what? Tell me about yourself."

Dean knows that’s a weird thing to ask, especially an angel who’s, well... Dean actually has no idea how old Cas really is, and he’s not sure he wants to know. But Cas seems to know just what he’s talking about. 

Cas pauses in his folding, his fingers absently stroking the flannel under them. "I like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but with jelly, not jam,” he begins, slowly. “When I was human, I thought mornings were a punishment from God, but that coffee was an apology. And I hadn't seen Star Wars until a few weeks before I met you."

Dean nods. "Agreed." He counts off with his fingers. "Agreed. Definitely agreed. And blasphemy."

“I was a very odd and spiritual child, even in a very religious family. It wasn’t uncommon to find me counting the arcs of beads on a rosary over and over while Jimmy played, and I would tell my parents and my teachers very descriptive stories about the Christ Child, and how he was very good at skipping stones.” He shakes his head, chuckling. “He probably would have found that funny.”

Dean snorts. “Did you actually, uh… know him?”

Cas’s eyes crease as he grins. “I did. He was a very nice young man, if a little stuffy. Though of course, I didn’t know that when I was human: everyone just thought I had a vivid imagination. My catechism teacher was not amused when I told her that if Jesus could be a little know-it-all in the Temple while discussing the scriptures, why couldn’t I?”

Dean can’t wait until Sam hears about this stuff, he’s gonna blow a gasket. Heck… he wonders what Pastor Jim would have thought of Cas. Of angels in general.

“Only Jimmy knew about my dreams, though. I knew well enough to keep those to myself. I never stopped having them: sometimes beautiful, sometimes terrifying.” He glances at Dean, and the tip of his tongue flickers to brush against his upper lip as he licks it. “Sometimes quite magnificent.”

Okay, this asshole is not making Dean blush in the middle of a damned _laundromat_. “Cas,” he complains.

Cas smiles and folds a few more items, his chin tilted in thought. "I enjoyed teaching, but hated every other part of the job... though, according to my colleagues, that wasn't unusual. I supervised six PhD candidates, and learned something I cherish from every one of them."

Cas pauses and swallows nervously; Dean figures it must be a habit from before. He looks up at the ceiling. His eyes are quiet, and the color of the Great Lakes in summer.

"I…" Cas hesitates again. "I was always surrounded by family and friends. I was never at a loss for an invitation to something. I had what was, by pretty much anyone’s definition, a blessed life, and yet I…" 

His breath catches. Dean is glad the place is so empty, because that little stutter of voice sounds so naked, and he doesn’t want anyone else to hear Cas like that. 

"I felt alone," Cas finishes. His hands clench around the fabric he's holding, and then they drop to the table. He looks down at his fingers like he isn’t seeing them. "I was very alone."

Dean doesn't ask why. It's not just that he knows the answer; it's that he understands the question.

Under the washed-thin cover of the flannel, he wiggles his hand underneath the cup of Cas's palm. Dean's fingers slip into the clench of Cas's callused grip. He strokes the tense, tight ball of Cas's thumb, and feels him relax, feels his whole wrist drop. When his hand uncurls, Dean's fingers interlock through his.

Dean doesn't give two shits about the fact that they're in public and they're both guys. He probably should care, he knows, 'cause someday they're going to be someplace where that won't fly. But right now, that doesn't matter.

'Cause he's never had anything like this. And it sounds like Cas hasn't, either. Maybe he couldn't. And in a way, that feels like it was Dean's fault. He doesn’t know how, but he knows he’s right about that.

"I'm sorry," he says, and he means it. Dean's never been alone, not really; not that way. There's always been Sam. There's always been girls. There's always been _distractions_. And if sometimes he wanted more, well... he never thought he was gonna get it.

Except now he has.

Cas squeezes his hand. "It's not your fault."

Dean squeezes back, his fingers resting perfectly in the shallows of Cas's knuckles. "It's a little my fault." Cas hasn't given Dean the full story, but Dean can read between the lines: a guy has to, in his line of work. Cas fell for him. He left Heaven _for him_ , and, somehow, ended up living a normal human life where they didn't meet for over 30 years. For _Dean_. Sure, it was Cas’s choice, but there were consequences.

"It was worth it." Cas is still staring down at the clothing. Dean bumps their shoulders together and Cas smiles, but it's brittle. "I'm sorry. With the combination of human emotions and an angel's grace, I find sometimes things are more volatile than I'm used to."

"Hey, hey. I kinda like you a little volatile." Dean also kind of likes teasing Cas, he's finding. He throws him a wink. "Anyone ever tell you you're a badass, by the way?"

Cas blinks at him. Then he blushes. This goddamned angel of the Lord actually blushes a little at a tiny little compliment. Dammit, he's not allowed to do things like that in public. "Um... no," he answers.

"What's your favorite book?" Dean shifts them gently back to what they were talking about. Okay, maybe not that gently.

Cas considers. "The Ramayana," he answers, after a moment.

Okay, Dean's gonna have to go look that one up. But clearly he's got something going, because that old, quiet pain is starting to fade from Cas's face, replaced by a hint of soft amusement. Yeah, Cas knows what he's doing. Dean's never exactly been subtle.

"Feelings about pie?"

This time, Cas actually smiles a little. "Agnostic?"

Dean groans.

At least he knows what they're doing after the laundry is done. Instead of going to a local diner and taking his chances (sometimes they're amazing, especially if there's a truck stop attached, but sometimes they taste like something cooked on the same plate as the hotdogs) Dean goes fancy, and actually looks up a local bakery. 

They sell by the slice, which is perfect, and Dean orders them four slices to try. There’s a key lime that has a whipped cream topping just as tall as its tart filling, and a local berry that looks black and glossy, covered with a crumbled and sugary topping. A chocolate silk slice looks like the best kind of pudding, smooth and sweet. And finally, apple: butter crust, small and well-cooked chunks of apple spilling out the edge, specks of cinnamon and nutmeg easy to see on the glistening fruit. The little cardboard containers are packed up into a brown paper bag, along with forks and napkins.

Dean drives them to a shady, empty glen he noticed on the way into town, and parks them in the sunshine. It's a cool day early in winter, but with the sun beating down onto Baby's black surface, it should be fine.

They eat pie on her hood, trading lazy smiles and forkfuls of deliciously baked pastry and filling. It's the kind of lazy afternoon Dean never thought he'd have, or want. The kissing starts happening between one bite and another. Sweet lips tasting like cinnamon or chocolate become almost more fascinating than the fresh slices of pie in their laps.

"So..." Dean murmurs, in between one kiss and the next. He scoops up the last bite of apple pie, with that last perfect crisp-soft piece of baked apple and a crunchy bit of crust, and looks at its pretty silhouette balanced on the fork before holding out to Cas. "Still agnostic on pie?"

If Sam ever saw him doing this, he'd probably go for the holy water again. The thought makes Dean grin. Not the ‘holding out a fork to another guy’ thing—giving up the last bite of a really good apple pie.

Cas smiles back at him and carefully turns the piece back in his direction. Dean gently lips it off the sun-warm plastic fork. That last bite is always so damned good. "I am developing some theories on it," Cas answers, finally, watching Dean chew. The next kiss Cas presses on his lips is careful.

Not too careful, though.

When they break apart this time, Dean puts the cardboard container down in the brown paper bag—yep, they really ate four whole slices of pie, and nope, Dean has no regrets. He slowly eases back on Baby's hood until he's stretched out over the sun-warm surface, and sighs happily.

He pats his belly and looks at the pretty guy sitting on the edge of the hood, watching him with a soft smile. "Hey," he grumbles. "Get over here."

Cas shuffles backwards, a little more awkward than Dean might expect from someone he's seen be as graceful as Cas. It's adorable. Once Cas makes it up to eye level, Dean ropes one arm around his shoulders and gently tugs until Cas is tucked comfortably under his chin, one long arm slung over his belly. He’s careful to avoid the fullest parts.

The fact that Cas knows to do that makes Dean's heart flutter. Cas strokes softly at Dean's side, a contented hum nearly purring out of him. "I'm not, anymore, you know,” he murmurs into Dean’s chest.

"Hmmm?" Dean's a little drowsy and a lot content. Cas is warm and pliant against his side and it makes him think about all sorts of impossible (some very dirty) things. Like waking up to this in the morning, every morning.

"Lonely," Cas says, softly. "I don't feel that way anymore."

Dean's heart squeezes up at that so hard it's difficult to breathe for a second. He can't even tell if it's surprise, or happiness, or just how good it feels to hear that. He tucks his fingers a little deeper into Cas's shoulder. Should've gotten him to take off the trench coat. Except having it spread over both of them now is nice; it's cozy, like a blanket. "Good," he manages. It comes out a little gruff. "I, uh... yeah. I'm glad."

Shit, Dean's not good with words, nope. He's gonna have to work on that.

Cas moves a little against him, enough that Dean raises his head and takes his hand off where it's wrapped around Cas's shoulder, resettling it at his side. The hand Cas has on Dean's belly sweeps downwards. Dean sucks in a tiny breath as fingers skim his thighs, but they just continue on their merry way. He watches them go, sleepily, without a grumble. Cas's fingers tuck into the pocket of his trench coat.

"I'm glad, too," Cas says, softly. His face is uplifted, watching Dean with his chin just barely resting on Dean's pec; his eyelashes are a little ducked down, blue just barely peeking out from under them. It's a look so shy that Dean doesn't know what to make of it, for a second. "I'm... I'm very happy, Dean. I'm so grateful you're real. I'm so grateful you're _you_ , and better than I dreamed."

Then Cas reaches down and presses something small and warm and metal into Dean’s hand.

The words that came out of Cas's mouth dazed Dean so much that it takes him a second to realize what's in his hand is actually a ring. 

When he does focus on it, he realizes it's silver, just like the one he gave Cas. His heart pancakes in his chest, briefly, until he realizes that, first of all, Cas is still wearing the ring Dean put on his finger; and second of all, the silver ring in his hand is very much not Dean’s ring. Oh, they look a lot alike, but there's a quality to the shine that's different. It seems familiar, though

"I thought you might appreciate having something tangible, too." Cas lifts the ring back out of Dean's hand and positions it so Dean can slide it on without having to move. He’s holding it up for Dean’s right hand, and Dean has no problems with that. "Invisible profound bonds are nice, but I have found that something solid is very life-affirming." He wiggles his left hand, running his thumb over the ring.

"I…." Dean's throat sticks. "Yeah. Yes." Because it's true: sometimes Dean _does_ think that the warm, buzzy feeling he feels in his shoulder or the bottom of his chest must be made-up. It's too good, and that doesn’t normally belong in their lives. "That sounds... nice."

Cas finishes pushing the ring down. The metal is shimmering and alive, but also cool and weirdly soothing. It almost has a familiar tone to it as his thumb runs over it—like music Dean can’t hear.

"It's forged from an old angel blade," Cas says, re-clasping their hands together. "You're right-handed, you'll appreciate the ring the next time you need your right hook."

Dean blinks himself out of his happy daze a little too slowly. The laugh slips out of him. "Cas... did you just give me the angel equivalent of brass knuckles?"

Cas squints at him. "No," he answers, looking confused for just an instant.

Dean's not buying it. He waits.

The confusion runs off into a wicked hint of amusement. "I gave you a ring," Cas says, running his thumb in slow circles around it. It almost makes the skin just above it more sensitive—tingling. "If I have thought about how it could benefit you in a fight—or how nice it might feel on my skin as you touch me—then that is just good planning."

Dean blinks slowly. "Oh," he says, a little dumbstruck with the visual—his hand moving over Cas's skin, with the gleam of Cas's ring on his finger. "You're a planner. Awesome."

"I was a tactician and strategist in Heaven, once upon a time," Cas agrees. His lips curve into a warm smile. "This is one of my better ideas, though."

Dean can't disagree. They fall into kisses, Cas leaning over him, draped perfectly against his side and a little on his chest. It's soft and fuzzy around the edges and Dean is happy to do this forever. (Or, okay, at least a lot longer than he’s ever wanted to just lie around and kiss before.)

Eventually though, it's not quite enough, and they need to either ease off or make a decision. Dean's lips are tingly and happy; his pants are just a shade too tight, but in the good way just before everything gets too constricting.

The pie flavors have mostly gone from their mouths, leaving only a hint of sweet. Everything else left behind is all Cas, and Dean remains hungry for it. Dean is toying with the idea of moving this along when Cas reluctantly pulls back and away.

Dean chases him, making a disappointed noise. He's not done kissing yet.

Cas runs his hand down Dean's chest, warm circles on his breastbone and then his stomach. He skims, briefly, lightly, over Dean's hard cock and they both shudder.

"Car," Cas rasps. "Inside."

Okay, yeah, yeah. Dean doesn't know if it's the profound bond thing, or if it's just that they're so hot for each other. Shit, Dean sort of forgot how amazing it could feel, having that edge of wanting and anticipation without having to deal with the awkward dance of 'hi, how are you' and 'can I buy you a drink.' Ultimately it doesn't matter.

He still grabs on and snatches another kiss from Cas's lips. This little glen’s not parkland, no one’s likely to come across them, but he sees where Cas is coming from. "Not into fooling around in public?" Dean teases, running a hand down Cas's thigh. Not that _Dean_ is—okay, he's never actually tried it, but that's not the point.

"Don't tempt me," Cas purrs.

Oh, shit. Okay. Okay.

Dean scrambles off Baby's side fast enough that he gives her an apologetic pat. By the time his feet hit the ground, Cas is already rounding her fender and backing Dean towards the door.

This time, Dean ducks in first, wedging himself into the corner that the bench seat and the other door make. Cas climbs in after him, reaching for Dean with one knee pulled up on the bench seat before he's even settled. This kiss is rougher, dirtier. Cas grasps at Dean, his hands running all over. They're warm and distracting by the time they inch their way under Dean's shirts, splaying wide and possessive over his sides.

Dean wants to lie back and just enjoy it, but first, he needs to peel that coat and jacket off Cas's shoulders. They've only done this twice, but already they work in tandem without getting their arms and hands too tangled in the small space. Dean's just about to ask Cas what he wants, because doesn't care what they do as long as they do it together. But Cas doesn’t seem to be in the mood to answer questions; his lips are all over Dean’s neck, sucking, kissing and nipping softly and aggressively in turns. When a hand touches Dean's fly, his cock throbs, reminding him exactly how turned on he is.

It's a lot.

Cas murmurs, against his neck, "It was never like this, before, not until you," and he sounds just as astonished as Dean feels. "I want you so much. I missed you."

That's even more. Dean doesn't even know what to say to that.

Dean's hands come up to grip Cas’s hips, and he sneaks his hands tight under Cas's waistband, fumbling for his belt. But once their pants are open, it's like that edge is off the need. They know where this is going. (Sort of.)

Dean peeks between them, chuckling. "Seriously, buddy, should we just stop wearing underwear?"

Cas's hands freeze on him briefly. His forehead knocks gently against Dean's shoulder. "That's a lovely thought."

Dean shudders a little; he can feel his cock leak a tiny bit at the idea of Cas with no underwear on under that big, baggy suit. “Yeah,” he agrees, pulling Cas on top of him until they’re both as sprawled out on the seat as they can get. They go back to making out for a while, tongues wet and sloppy, hips shifting now and then. 

Everything about it is spectacular: Cas's soft, sweet pants between kisses, the feeling of his zipper catching against Dean's shirt; Cas's hands and the way they're so sure one minute and then fumble the next. It's all so much and Dean's happy for every second of it. The soft cotton of their boxers blunts the feelings just enough that he’d do this all over again.

Cas is the one who reaches first, who props himself up with one hand on Baby's seat like suspending himself over Dean that way is easy. (Maybe for him it is.) He looks up and down Dean's body like he's not sure what he wants to touch first.

Dean snorts. "Show-off," he mumbles, and streaks his fingers down the midline of Cas's chest, pushing his hands underneath the hem of his plain white button down to feel the sleek line of those abs under his fingers. Partly because it makes Cas shiver. Partly just because he wants to.

Cas's free hand follows the same path up Dean's belly, under his shirt and flannel. Naked was nice, it was very nice, but there's something fun about this, too. Dean almost complains as Cas sits up and lifts the rest of the way off him, settling himself with one knee gently nudging Dean’s thighs apart and his other foot on the floor. 

Then, as Cas's hand sneaks downwards and boldly cups the bulge in Dean's boxers, thumb tracing the ridge Dean’s popping in his shorts, Dean knows this is going to be very, very fun.

Dean groans happily, and his fingers tighten on Cas’s thighs when Cas's thumb strokes along the line of his dick, circling a little near the top, pressing perfectly at the edge where the head meets the shaft. Suddenly, Dean's hands feel empty despite the skin-warm cloth under his fingertips. He needs to touch Cas, all over. But more specifically, he reaches for the bulge Cas is sporting, the wet spot on the grey boxers looking already minutes old. Dean's fingers skim the shape of it and Cas moans, the sound filling the car.

Dean realizes it’s been weeks since he's had his hand on Cas's bare cock, and that's just a crime. He debates, briefly and hazily (Cas is pressing his full palm into Dean's cock and that's distracting as fuck) about whether he should stick his hand down the top of Cas's boxer shorts, or just slide into the opening in the front. He could just pop that dick out and get his hands on it, framing it with Cas's open pants. The image is searingly hot in his mind.

Yup, that's what Dean wants. Cas's hand freezes briefly on him as Dean sneaks his fingers in, just barely inside the slit in Cas’s plain boxers, and touches, skin to skin, warm and soft. Just his fingertips, just a little hello, that's all.

"Dean," Cas murmurs, like it's just for the pleasure of saying his name. He tucks his chin and leans his way back over, settling on top to kiss Dean's cheek. It’s weirdly chaste, but so intimate Dean's eyes sting.

So Dean’s not at all prepared for Cas to mirror his actions, the feeling of callused fingertips fumbling on his cock through the slit of his boxers sending shivers of pleasure through him. Fuck, yes.

Cas traces a line down the underside, hot sparks following his fingertips, before slowly but firmly wrapping his whole hand around Dean's cock, thumb swiping gently at the head for moisture. Dean bites his lip and then returns the favor, savoring the slow shudder that runs through Cas's body.

Dean has already had the chance to do this once, and he's pretty sure he memorized every second of that lazy morning on that king sized bed. Cas, however, has only spent a short amount of time with his hand on Dean's dick. While Dean wouldn't trade what they've already done for anything, it still seems a shame that Cas's long fingers and curious calluses haven't spent more time around his cock.

The windows are already foggy and Dean pants out air, hot and humid against Cas's temple. They pump each other with slow, careful movements and it's like pleasure washes over his entire body.

Dean rocks gently upwards into Cas's hand, and the roll of exploration as Cas wedges his hand deeper into his boxers is almost distracting enough that Dean stops his own hand moving. Especially when Cas lets go of Dean’s cock and his fingers pet curiously at the thin web where the base of Dean's cock meets his balls.

Now, though, Dean can see everything on Cas’s face, and that's even better: watching Cas's lips purse and part with concentration, the flickers of pleasure creasing his forehead as his dark eyebrows tilt up.

Cas blinks up at him like he's coming out of a dream. "Are you alright?" he asks.

"Yeah," Dean answers hoarsely, and tightens his grip, giving Cas a long stroke from base to tip before gently extracting him out from inside his boxers and looking between them. Shit, that looks just as hot as he thought it would, framed in the vee of Cas’s black pants. "Yeah, just admiring the view."

It's a helluva view, and this time Dean can much more clearly see the way his fingers fit so nice around Cas’s shaft and how the shiny red head peeks out on the downstroke. Through Cas's partially opened and shoved-up shirt, Dean can see Cas’s stomach jump on every upstroke, and that's just the best bit of visual information Dean's ever gotten.

It takes a second—he's very distracted, okay?—to realize Cas has started mimicking his movements. When Dean twists gently on the upstroke, Cas gasps and thrusts a little against Dean’s palm... but then he repeats the motion on Dean and it's fucking fantastic. Okay, okay, he can play this game, this is a great game. Dean loves this game.

"How d'you like to touch yourself?" Dean asks, his head spinning at the visual that's going through his mind—Cas, his Cas, lying out on the bed with his hand moving on himself. He's gonna wanna see that sometime. "Slow and soft?" He demonstrates, his fingers a careful cuff, and Cas does the same to him... oh, fuck, yeah, this is going to be fun. "Tight and fast?"

The next stroke is a little rougher, but precome dribbles onto his thumb when he sweeps it over the wet, full head of Cas's cock—

Even knowing it's coming, when Cas copies him, the tight, perfect squeeze just barely rasped with callus rocks the breath out of Dean.

He's not sure who's going to win this game. He's not sure this game actually has losers.

"Maybe you like touching just the head?" Dean keeps going, giving Cas a couple of strokes that end only a little bit below the flare. Cas bites his earlobe and returns the favor, and Dean can't stop himself from rocking into the short, sharp, teasing pulls. Cas ends it with an equally short, sharp suck on Dean’s earlobe. Holy fuck, that should not feel like it's his dick getting licked.

Dean’s hand is nice and slick now, after that last little set of teases over the head of Cas’s cock, and that's great. That’s perfect, because Dean really needs to hear what it sounds like when he starts stroking Cas base to tip in firm, long strokes, over and over. His hand is so wet he doesn’t even need to pause. Cas catches on quickly, and fuck if Dean's not a huge fan of that as well.

"Fuck, this is good," Dean mutters, finally looking away from the incredible sight of their hands on each other’s cocks so that they can kiss. It's mostly a press of lips, slanted and sloppy, but it's a perfect counterpoint to the way his nervous system is lighting up.

They part, panting, and as much as Dean wants to spend hours exploring, his stomach is starting to tighten in a delicious sort of way and his hips can't stop making aborted little thrusts.

Cas is making small, bright huffing sounds, and he's shivering, flushed. He couldn't possibly look less composed or angelic, one rumpled, shivery mess of pleasure with his eyes squeezed closed, and it's so fucking hot.

Except... Wait. Is that light that Dean's seeing, tiny flashes under Cas's eyelids?

Dean doesn't stop what he's doing—Dean doesn't think he could stop, not with the sound of his hand moving in long pulls on Cas being answered with a stroke on his own cock in a perfect echo. But he does manage to say, "Cas... sweetheart, what's with the firefly...?"

Cas shudders and swallows before answering. "Grace. Human emotions. Sometimes volatile." Each sentence is punctuated by the push/pull drag of their fists on each other's cocks.

"S'that why I had to close my eyes?" Dean slurs. Having an actual conversation about this is starting to become impossible, even if Dean is finding he’s insatiably curious about anything Cas-related.

"Yes," Cas hisses out on the next stroke. Their coordination is starting to fail, but that's fine because they can just hold their hands steady and thrust into them; that's good too. That's great.

The feeling of Cas's hand, tight and wet, just enough texture to matter, is going to be more than enough but there's still something… something Dean wants. But he's not sure what. ‘Cause this, this is fucking great.

Cas, the evil genius, figures it out. He leans down and _licks_ Dean's shoulder, right over the fabric of his t-shirt. 

But more importantly over the palmprint that sits underneath it.

_Holy fuck._

Dean never believed in a "connection" before Cas. He can't deny what they have, though; wouldn't want to even if he could. He's never imagined anything this good.

But there's a difference between wanting to see Cas smile and thinking he's so damned cute when he squints—and feeling that lick all the way through t-shirt, through scar and skin, all the way down to Dean's goddamned soul.

It feels so perfect, so right: it tilts through pleasure, into pain, and then over it and into fucking ecstasy. It felt amazing when Cas touched and traced and kissed it before—but it wasn't like this, nothing like this.

Dean's back arches so hard that his hips leave Baby's back seat, and that shoves his cock through the cup of Cas's fingers.

He feels thick hair, a little sweaty, through his fingers, and Dean has no idea when his free hand swept up to grab Cas and hold his head against Dean’s shoulder.

But he feels Cas smile against it like there's no cloth between them. Dean gets approximately three breaths to catch up on, complete with slow sliding thrusts into Cas’s hand when Cas laps at him again, and it's almost torture because it's so fucking good. Dean's fingers tighten on Cas's hair because fuck, Cas needs to do that again, right now.

"Of course, Dean," Cas murmurs, and kisses the shoulder. Dean shudders; his toes curl in his boots and his dick gets just that little bit harder. 

Then Cas licks him one last time and Dean's gone, orgasm like a tidal wave pulling him under: head thrown back, hips lifting, thrusting mindlessly into Cas's perfect, perfect hand as he makes a mess of his boxers, his shirt. Calluses catch just right, and he shudders again.

Cas nurses him through it, soft kisses on his shoulder leaving tiny zings of electricity that draw out a few last pumps until, finally, Dean's wrung out and breathless. Cas is one tense bowstring just a little over him, dick throbbing in time with Dean's thundering heart.

Now that Dean's come, the urgency and edge is off, but his head is still spinning at how good that was. His hand has kept moving, though, tight and fast, concentrating the press of his thumb against the thick, wet band up Cas's underside. He's definitely pulsing in Dean's hand.

"Yeah, Cas," Dean croons. Cas's thighs are flexing against Dean's, and his eyes are squeezed shut; he almost looks like he's in pain. "C'mon, you're there, sweetheart, come on me."

That gets Cas but good, and his head cants back on his shoulders. He doesn't say anything about Dean closing his eyes this time—and Dean doesn't. Dean doesn't look away from Cas's face as Cas comes in hot, shuddering jets all over Dean's hand, Dean's cock, the thin bare come-splattered strip of his belly where his shirt rode up. 

Dean can't look away. He watches Cas jerking on top of him with light flashing under his eyelids, crying out in a thick, raspy moan that fills the whole car. The sound echoes inside Dean, and it coaxes another helpless spurt out of Dean's dick in a hot dribble.

God, yes, yes. Dean shoves himself vertical enough to bite the base of Cas's neck, just because he has to taste. Cas grunts and spurts twice more into Dean’s hand after Dean's teeth print into the soft skin of his neck. Cas shudders softly as he slowly lowers his body down against Dean's. Dean kisses the bite mark and watches it slowly disappear again.

It takes two tries to unwrap his hand from around Cas's softening cock. Dean doesn't actually want to let go: he wants to know what that feels like, now, when Cas is only half-hard and oversensitive. Dean's also just about fucked out and he lacks the coordination to really do much exploring, what with his entire body being a limp, sexed-out lump. An incredibly satisfied, sexed-out lump, but still: lump.

Dean giggles. He actually giggles. Endorphins are the best shit. 

Cas's own deep, rumbling laugh feels carefree as it rolls through Dean's chest. Their dicks are pressed together, soft but sensitive enough to send lingering happy jolts through them as Cas straightens out. They settle into something approaching a very tangled, horizontal hug. Dean finally remembers to release Cas's hair, though Cas’s head doesn't move more than to nuzzle at the spot nearest it. 

Coincidentally, that's the lower edge of the palm print.

This time, it's the buzz of connection that washes through Dean, clean and uncomplicated—right, as if any of this is anything but complicated, but it feels so simple when they're like this. Cas is soft and pliant next to him (okay, on top of him, and that feels very nice) and Dean's brain is maxed out on pleasure to the point of quiet.

They just hold each other in silence for long enough that it should be getting uncomfortable, but it isn't. Dean blinks what might be minutes later, but it might be hours. The light outside the window is softer, thicker now.

The caress of the fading sun is amazing on Cas's face, on the high curve of his cheekbone and the slant of the bridge of his nose. His lips are so damned pink. Dean doesn't know if he'd have looked twice if there hadn't been this... everything between them, and that would have been a damned shame, wouldn't it.

He feels soft skin against his fingertips and realizes that he reached up with one hand to trace those deeply curved lips he was admiring.

Cas is smiling at him through Dean's fingers. He mouths at them, playful in a way that Dean suspects Cas never got to be, not in any of his lives.

Dean's gonna have to make some time to change that.

In between trying to stop the apocalypse, hiding from evil angels, and keeping Sam away from a drug pusher demon. 

The content feeling in Dean’s stomach makes all of those worries seem far away and indistinct. He lets it, knowing that all-too-soon it’ll be time to worry about it all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tia:** The food descriptions are not my doing this time! And, c'mon, tell me that isn't the cutest first date ever: laundry, pie, and, well, Baby's back seat...


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Tia** : Alright, friends, here's where things start going just a wee bit more nuts... and yes, we realize that some observant readers might note that the episode order is not quite the same. There's a reason for that--you'll see! :wink:

Dean is whistling and cleaning his Colt by the time Sam makes it back to their hotel room. (Later than Dean, which is saying something considering Dean and Cas had trouble separating and it took them nearly an hour to finish putting themselves back together.) Cas is back working his sources. He's promised that something is coming, it's just going to take time; Dean trusts him.

Sam manages to come in looking both super casual and wildly suspicious at the same time. Dean doesn't ask just yet: he hates it that Sam is lying about this. He recognizes that he's being a bit of a hypocrite, but Cas is categorically not the same thing as Ruby. Plus, Dean is absolutely going to tell Sam that Cas caught up with Dean, and he’s planning to relay all the new information Cas passed along. Sam will probably not even mention Ruby unless he has to.

Still, Sam's sudden breakout smile after setting his shit down and looking at Dean? That’s startling.

"Oh, thank God," Sam breathes.

Dean raises his eyebrows. "What?"

"You got laid. I was getting worried." Sam sighs the sigh of the eternally relieved.

Uh... okay? Dean stares at him. "Dude, did you get hit on the head? You complain when I pick up someone all the time." Not that Dean ever picked up any guys in front of Sam, and guys were few and far between anyway, but that's not the point. Also, it’s not really the problem. "Also, uh... wait, how did you…?"

Sam rolls his eyes so hard his hair almost levitates. "Dean, we've been living together all our lives. I think I can recognize by now when you've got that... that..."

"That what?" Dean grumbles.

Sam flaps a hand up and down in the direction of Dean’s… something. "That... strut. That 'I just got laid' strut.” Sam scrunches up his nose, and it makes him look shockingly young again. “You just, you know, you haven't been, um... since... you know."

Dean's pretty sure they're both making a face now and regretting everything about this conversation. But Sam being weird and little-brotherly is familiar enough and comforting enough that he feels his shoulders relax. He ignores the fact that he’s gotten laid slightly more frequently than Sam just implied. "Yeah, _and_ I got some intel, too... 'cause I'm just that good." He pastes the smirk on and is surprised to find that some of it is actually real.

Dean relays what little he’s got. Cas has an inside man. Cas is definitely sure there's something up with the Lilith thing, because she’s all the buzz in the wrong hives in Heaven (Sam's eyes shutter at that one but he says nothing).

"Oh, and the best part," Dean says, with a wide smile, "They've figured out they can't find us and they are _pissed._ There was apparently a hissy fit about it in Heaven. Someone stamped their feet and Chicago got a windstorm."

Sam does actually laugh at that. As much as he'd been in awe when the concept of angels had first been introduced, Sam had soured just about as fast as Dean had. 

With, in Dean’s case, a large Cas-shaped exception. And Dean’s pretty sure that’s got nothing to do with Cas’s halo and harp.

There's some debate about if they should stay another night or not. Dean doesn’t care: he's done his laundry, picked up a few things he needs and he's not going to call Cas away from something important for a second day in a row (no matter how much he wants to). The question is solved for them when Sam finds them a case that night over takeout Chinese.

It's rare that they've got cases in the middle of big cities, and even when they do, they normally stay at highway motels off the exits—people don't ask as many questions. But they've been here before: Denver's gotten crowded enough that just driving in and out on a weekday leaves Dean riding the brake while people struggle their way into the city from the 'burbs.

They pull up in front of the shittiest motel in the city—so, of course, it's in a part of Denver where angels fear to tread. Just how they like it, really. Dean nods absently at a girl who's almost certainly on the job, and he can't help but think how young she looks.

(Shit, or he's getting old.)

The air is so thin and dry Dean has to take a few deep breaths just to feel like he's getting enough. He hopes they're either here long enough to acclimate—he sort of forgot about that—or here for so little time that it doesn't matter.

A street preacher in front of the Century Hotel, holding a thin, ragged placard saying "Have you made time for God today?" leans over towards him. His eyes are clear, and a little too bright.

"Is your soul rapture-ready?" he asks Dean.

With the kind of place this is, Dean's surprised the guy hasn't been run off already. Tough gig. He flashes his teeth. "Oh, yeah. Been to Hell and back."

Sam chokes out something that might be a laugh as he follows Dean in.

They get maybe a half hour to settle in and start to put together their game plan. It's late and Dean would rather face Denver in the early AM than the late PM. He and Sam are about to rock-paper-scissors for which of them gets the bed with the weird dip in the middle when wingbeats fill the air.

Dean didn’t feel the run of warm pressure down his shoulders. It’s _not Cas._

A round-faced, balding man who looks like he probably chugs Pepto to get through his day job pops into their motel room with two incredibly generic but younger looking guys hovering behind his shoulders. They’re all wearing suits. They all look like they haven’t pooped in three days.

"Winchesters," Baldy hisses. "We need to have a talk."

What the fuck. How…?

Dean starts to slowly reach for the small of his back, where he’s got Cas’s angel blade rigged up in an old machete harness underneath his flannel with the hilt pointing downwards and just waiting for his hand. 

He also starts thinking about Cas really, really hard. Cas told him, with this tiny little smile, that he hears it when Dean does that, but Dean really didn’t think this was how he was gonna test it out.

"Search the place for hex bags," the grumpy one instructs his lackeys before turning his attention to Dean. That expression on his face is probably supposed to resemble a smile. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Zachariah, and you two are a pain in my ass."

Dean curses inside: Sam doesn't know about the angel blade yet, so he wouldn’t know how to distract this Zachariah douche. Though the fact that Tweedledum and Tweedledumber are searching the place for hex bags? Means that hex bags work on angels. That's definitely a thing to keep in mind.

Dean's really only got a few settings in a situation like this, though: punch it, charm it, or asshole it.

Sometimes all three at once, but he doesn't want to break his hand. He remembers what happened the last time he tried to hit Inais.

Charming asshole it is.

"I'm sorry, you must be thinking of someone else,” Dean answers, sweet as can be. “You're just not my type." 

Sam goggles at him.

Zach, or whatever he calls himself, goes so dark that there should be storm clouds raining on his balding head. His eyes bulge. "Believe me,” he sneers, making a wide gesture that’s probably supposed to encompass the whole human race, and not just his own body. Vessel. Whatever. “I have no interest in popping down here into one of these smelly things."

"Thanks," Dean retorts, casually. "But if you have complaints about how the human body works, take it up with your dad. I got a list, too, if he's got his ears on."

Behind Zachariah’s back, Sam is making faces that are frankly, hilarious. But mostly attempting to ask Dean what the hell he thinks he's doing. Oh, please, like Sam's never watched him work before.

"I don't know who's helping you adorable little monkeys," Zachariah snarls—Dean suspects Zachariah does not, in fact, think they're adorable, "but you will tell me, so that I can kill them."

Dean tilts his head and pokes his tongue into his cheek. Zach is really not good at this, is he. "Angels really don't know how to soft sell, do they? I mean, really, if you'd spent half a second treating me like a person instead of an incredibly smart dog, we might not be having this problem right now."

" _Smart_ dog?" Zachariah’s voice reaches a pitch that might not be possible with human vocal cords. "You listen here, you little mongrel," and that's when he lays on hands, grabs Dean by the flannel shirt and shoves him against a wall. "We have work for you and you will do it."

Dean's getting ready to slug the asshole anyway when he feels the pressure change that signals Cas's entrance. He knows it now: it comes a half second before the wingbeats.

Shit. Dean doesn't know how this is going to work, 'cause it's not gonna be like Uriel and Iniais: Cas is outnumbered, he isn't gonna get the jump on them like he did with Uriel, and Dean has a feeling that Angelface One and Angelface Two aren't exactly gonna do what Inias did and stand there with their dicks (or angel blades) in their hands.

So they're down to option number three: just before there’s a flap of trench coat and half the lamps in the room blow, Dean slings back his right hand and slugs Zachariah right across his smug, slack-jacked face. It's not gonna do jack shit, and it might break Dean's hand, but if it takes their attention off Cas’s entrance for even a sec—

The thick-shouldered middle-aged guy who’s holding Dean up against a wall and who Dean shouldn't have been able to move with a _forklift?_

Goes fucking _flying_ , laying himself all six-feet-plus out on the floor with a scarlet mark from Dean's ring already starting to bloom across his face.

Dean gapes. The angels gape. Sam gapes.

Cas drops in the middle of all of them with his wings spread wide. Dean can feel the burn and whiffle of the feathers whipping across his face—holy shit he's never felt that before—and the shadows of them sprawl across every surface of this little room.

Thing 1 and Thing 2 gape. Literally gape. Dean's not far behind them—holy shit Cas was not fooling around with that ring, _or_ that entrance. 

Cas’s blade is already dancing and flashing as Dean snatches for the knife under his flannel.. By the time he's got it out, the twins are dead, burnt wings scraping across the entire room. Zachariah has managed to recover—he's at least standing—but he has a startled hand on the already-healing bruise on his face.

The guy is obviously not used to being outmaneuvered. He's two parts hysterical and one part spitting mad.

"Castiel," he hisses, hand raising into a familiar snapping motion. “You pathetic little seraph, you think—”

"Ah-ah." Dean flicks his wrist and cuts at Zachariah’s arm with the angel blade; blue light spills out of the cut and Zachariah spins to face him, his face going even more pinched at the sight of Dean holding what’s probably some kind of sacred knife. Dean grins and draws a neat little figure eight in the air with the tip. Damn, he loves this thing. "No snapping at the grumpy seraph. Sure, he’s pretty, but it might make him grumpier."

Cas nudges the corpse of one of the other angels away from his feet and turns to the douchecanoe. "Zachariah,” he growls. “How did you find them?"

Zachariah, who apparently never met a boast he couldn't resist, eventually tells them about the preachers, sneering all the while. Yeah, yeah, so smart. Dean takes notes for future reference.

Now that they've got the guy pinned, though, Dean's not sure what they're gonna do with him. Castiel doesn't seem like he's going to kill an unarmed angel, and Dean, for all that the guy called him a mongrel and a monkey, generally doesn't stab people for animal comparisons.

But Cas's smile over at the bigger angel isn't a smile at all—it's cold and bright. "I should have known you were involved," he says. "You always were a boot-licker."

Zachariah sneers, ignoring the light that's still shining from the cut on his arm. "And I should have known that you being put out of your misery when you were weak from your reintegration was too good a rumor to be true. Could Uriel not even do that much right?” He sighs and shakes his head, sadly. “You always were wrong in the head, Castiel, but now you've thrown your lot in with the apes?"

Alright, Dean might stab him after all.

Cas lets his blade drift closer to Zachariah's neck. "I've thrown my lot in with _humans_. With those with whose destinies you've decided to play fast and loose" Cas growls, and Dean for once isn't getting an instant boner at the sound of that rumble. Thank God. "It's not about Heaven or Hell, it's about the humans in the crossfire. It always was. Michael is supposed to fight Lucifer to _protect_ the humans in his charge, not take them down in the process!" His lip curls, and he straightens, lifting his chin. “‘For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways,’” he spits.

There's a moment there where Dean can see the academic Cas was before—the well-read and respected young professor. If a professor lectured while really, really mad and ready to smite someone. Honestly, based on the few of Sam's stories from Stanford, Dean thinks some of them might actually do that.

Zach opens his mouth, but Cas cuts him off. "And as for these two humans—they are under _my_ protection, Zachariah," Cas’s blade twirls gracefully in his hand until the handle is facing outwards—

And he hits Zachariah square in the nose.

The next thing Dean knows, he, Sam, Baby, their bags and Cas are standing at the side of a dark, deserted road. Cas falters and then uses the side of the car to keep standing. "Oh. That… was a lot," he rasps, and his knees buckle under him.

Dean is there in two quick steps. He wants to shove his shoulder into Cas's armpit and then wrap an arm around him to hold him up, but Dean is intensely aware of Sam standing right there. Instead, he opens the back door to the Impala and eases Cas onto the seat.

There's a trickle of something silvery-blue out of the side of Cas's mouth, and after a second of glow it resolves into ordinary blood. Dean's not sure that's a good thing. Neither's the way that Cas slumps in the back seat: he's normally pretty graceful. Dean's seen him go limp and boneless for other reasons, but not this way.

"Cas?" he says, alarmed. He reaches over and wipes away the blood with a corner of his sleeve, automatically—like that'd even do anything.

"I'm alright," Cas husks. Shit, he does not sound alright. "I'm... we should go."

Sam says, sounding shaky over Dean's shoulder, "Uh... where... are we?"

Dean looks up. His brother looks kind of freaked out. Oh, it's probably his first time taking angel express, come to think of it.

When Dean looks around, though, it looks like the Great American Midwest at oh-dark-hundred, so anywhere within about 500,000 square miles. "Cas?" he asks, a little more gently. "Buddy, where'd you put us?"

Cas rouses himself with a little shake. Sam hands him a bottle of water over Dean's shoulder, and Cas takes it gratefully. He doesn't drink it, though, just holds it against his cheek with a small sigh.

"Near Santa Fe," he says, groggily. "We went on vacation here when we were little. I remembered the vista very vividly."

Dean nods and pulls out the old atlas from under the front seat. It turns out they're on a state road just off the main interstate. Dean hauls ass down the bumpy, paved road until they hit highway, and then turns off at the first motel sign. He sends Sam in to see what the room situation is. Goddammit, he wishes he could ask for their own room, separate from Sam. 

He checks out Cas in the rearview mirror. He's awake and mostly aware, but his coloring is still a bit peaked. He’s still sitting like something hurts inside.

Sam pops back in a few minutes later and Dean parks them in the right spot. Dean directs Sam to the bags while he leans into the back seat and runs a reassuring hand down Cas's side, meeting his pained smile with one of his own. Dean wants to crawl in there with him, hold him close and reassure both of them that Cas is gonna be fine. Instead, he helps him out of the backseat and walks him into their new motel room.

They settle Cas on the rickety, swaybacked, yellow-orange sofa in the motel room—Dean tries to coax him into one of the beds, but Cas starts getting a stubborn set around his jawline, so he compromises on that. He's about to see if he can get Cas to actually drink any of the water bottle he's still clutching when Sam, over his shoulder, says, "Dean, can I talk to you?"

"Yeah, sure, Sam." Is Cas's color supposed to be this way? He's not bleeding anymore that Dean can tell, but the way Cas keeps trying to give him a reassuring smile is the last thing from reassuring. "What?"

"Outside," Sam says, firmly.

Dean blinks and looks over his shoulder. Sam has his arms crossed. Okay, what the hell?

"I'm alright, Dean, go." Cas raises a hand and loosely pats at Dean's upper arm. Then he lets his head rest back against the sofa back and his eyes drift closed. Dean spends a second making sure he's still breathing before realizing that that's dumb: he's not even sure angels need to breathe.

Sam closes the door gently behind them, and they both look around. The parking lot outside the fleabag motel has no other cars in it; that's a good sign. Sam still walks them all the way down to the vending machines. Dean would’ve told him not to bother: either Cas can hear them from across the street, or he's so worn-down that he wouldn't hear them through a white noise machine.

But Sam's expression is more pinched than Dean's seen it in a long, long time, and for Sam, that's saying something. His little brother’s arms are crossed so tightly that the tendons in his forearms are standing out where his sleeves are pushed up. He doesn’t seem to be feeling the winter cold, even though Dean wishes he pulled on a thicker jacket.

"What are you on, Dean?" Sam asks, low and dangerous. "You've got some nerve, getting on my case about the demon blood, when you..."

Dean stares at him, and, for just a moment, forgets he's worried about Cas.

"Huh?" he finally demands.

Sam slaps the vending machine hard enough that its recovery resembles an old pinball machine when someone tries to tilt it. "What are you juicing up with? What was powering that punch? Huh?” he snarls. “I want to know exactly what flavor of hypocrite my brother is." When he's done with that little speech, Sam is breathing hard and there's a flinty look of betrayal in his eyes.

It takes Dean another second to fully clue into what Sam is accusing him of. 

For a brief moment, he really wants to say 'angel jizz' because Sam deserves to have that burned into his memory for this bullshit. Dean refrains only because it's _Cas_ , and their whole thing is still tender and new. Dean hasn’t had much in his life to protect that’s just _his_ to have, and he’s sure as shit not gonna use it as a weapon.

"Wow," Dean says, flatly. "So it is true, people really _do_ accuse you of the terrible shit they're willing to do themselves. Congrats, Sammy."

Sam just stares stonily at him. His lip curls up in a sneer that, hell, looks more like something that belongs on Ruby rather than himself.

But there's something hurt and shaky behind his little brother's eyes, betrayed. Because Dean’s reckless as shit, but Dean's also always been the one who's hauled Sammy back, who's stood the line. Dean knows he’s protected Sammy from himself—even when it looked like Sam didn’t need to be protected from the monster under the bed, because he _was_ the monster under the bed. 

And Dean knows that exact feeling, too: of realizing that his brother’s not what he thought

Dean reaches up and scratches hard behind his head. Shit. He sighs and leans his hips back against the wall, clunking the back of his head against it.

Yeah, he's pissed at the accusation. Yeah, this is fucked up. But yeah, Dean didn't exactly expect that he'd send an angel flying with a punch, either, so how could he expect Sam to get it? 

Dean looks down at his hand—his knuckles should be in pieces—and the ring gleams on his finger, warm and bright and welcoming. He runs a thumb over it because he can't not, and looks up again.

"I ain't juicin', Sam," he finally answers, seriously. "I mean, I don't have that magic woo woo wiring that you've got. How would that even work?" He shakes his head. "Look, I didn't know that would happen. I thought I was gonna crack my hand; just had to do something to distract him, y’know? But I'm guessing it has something to do with, uh...” he shrugs, awkwardly, “bein' pulled out of Hell by the kind of angel that just scared the shit out of that dickweed. Cas gave me the angel knife, too. Before you ask."

It's even true. It's not the whole truth, but it's all true.

Sam blinks, slowly, like he's just remembered to. "You... you punched him not knowing if...? How stupid are you?"

"Hey!" Dean objects, his chin jerking upwards "You say that like I haven't done _way stupider_ things in my life!"

It's really annoying and kind of fucked up that that’s what makes Sam relax a little.

Sam backs off, but Dean knows him too well. There's still a suspicious glint in his eyes and Dean bets its name is Ruby, dripping poison into Sam’s ears. 

They head back to the room and Dean finds Cas where they left him; the only change is that he's finally cracked the water bottle open and started sipping it. Seeing Cas makes Dean _want,_ and not the dirty kind of wanting. (Well, okay, not _just_ the dirty kind.) 

Cas gifts him with a tired smile and a gentle ping along his consciousness. Dean nods back, unable to really express exactly what he's feeling.

It's Sam who starts asking some of the questions going through Dean’s mind. "Hey, you okay, man? That looked like it took a lot out of you."

Cas smiles wanly. "I'm cut off from Heaven. It’s why Zachariah assumed I was dead. So large expenditures of energy, such as transporting two humans and their car, can be... taxing."

Dean frowns. "You're... cut off from Heaven?" Okay, he didn't hear anything about this. Shit, he knew that Cas was hiding something, but he didn't know what. "Wait, what does that mean?"

Cas sighs, and leans his head back against the sofa back. Then he raises it and turns his chin a little to peer at it suspiciously. "There were... acts, committed on this sofa," he announces. He looks offended.

That, if anything, makes a little huff of laughter come out of Sam. He relaxes a little further. "Yeah, well, it _is_ a no-tell motel."

Cas wrinkles his nose—goddammit, he is not allowed to be really fucking cute, they're having a serious conversation here. "Cas," Dean insists.

Cas looks up and shakes his head. "I'm not... replenishing my grace the way it should. I'm not sure what will happen when it runs out. If it means I become human, well... I've been human. It has its upsides." He smiles, small, a little rueful. "I won't be as much use to you two, though."

Dean swallows and resists sitting down next to Cas, and not just because can't stop thinking about the gross things that probably happened on that couch. "What do you mean, not replenishing like it should?"

Cas pushes himself a bit more upright, and then grimaces and looks down at his hands. Yeah, Dean's gonna need a hot shower after this room, with lots of soap.

"Generally," Cas takes a sip of water, eyes closing and lashes fanning out against his pale face; he looks so tired that all Dean wants to do is stroke his hair for several hundred hours. "An angel's power is backed up by the entirety of the heavenly host. It's sort of a symbiotic relationship. We were never meant to exist alone: we're each other's batteries, in a way. Together, we replenish each other. As a solitary piece of multi dimensional heavenly intent, I charge... slowly."

Dean's eyes widen in alarm. "Wait, but you are still, uh... charging, right?"

"Dean," Sam snaps, a harsh edge to his voice. "Look, Castiel, we owe you—Dean owes you. It's not just about whether you've got power or grace or whatnot, that’s not what he means."

Jesus fuck, Sam, of course not. Dean glares.

Cas turns a small smile upwards at Dean to let Dean know that he understood what he meant, not just what Dean, the dumbass that he is, actually said.

"You really saved our bacon, Cas," Dean says. "Thanks, but... uh, who was the dick in an ugly suit? Er, no offense," he adds, as Cas gives him a rueful glance.

This time, Dean does reach out and pat Cas’s shoulder. He's not exactly sure what happens when he does that, but there's a warm drain of clarity. Goosebumps rise on Dean’s forearms, and the night's a little colder. But when Cas blinks back at him, a little of the grey is off his cheeks. Huh.

"Oh..." Cas murmurs, then shakes his head a little, looking between them both. Okay, they're going to have to talk about whatever that was, too, it looks like, "That is Zachariah." His lips twitch upwards at the corners. "I suppose you could just say I threatened my former boss. It was very satisfying."

Dean laughs. He gets it, he really does. Dean has rarely had true bosses, but there's nothing better than finally telling someone you've been itching to tell to fuck off to finally _fuck off_.

Cas joins him for a few chuckles and that more than anything seems to throw Sam off. He spends the rest of the evening looking slightly confused, even as he and Dean start putting up the warding. By the time Cas finally stands to leave, Sam’s still got a little furrow between his eyebrows. 

"I have to go. I was in the middle of something delicate and I should get back," Cas explains. He’s not weaving on his feet anymore, at least. Sam thanks him again and gives him a solid handshake goodbye. 

Dean meets Cas's eyes. He knows that they both want more than a shoulder clap, and that knowledge has to be enough for now. Their pinkies brush as they walk past each other, like tiny magnets that just can't stop reaching. It's soothing in a way that also leaves a tiny ache in Dean's chest when Cas flaps off.

Sam and Dean truck onwards. They hand off Denver's case to someone else, because fucking Zachariah is probably frantically searching for them again, and choose cases that take them to backwoods counties and down tiny dirt roads instead. 

It's along one of those tiny dirt roads, near a gorgeous tiny lake, that one of Dad's old phones rings. And Dean is confronted with the existence of one Adam Milligan.

And if Dean thought their lives couldn't get any more fucked, well. Here's the evidence.

He and Sam don't talk about it as they're driving away from Windom, Minnesota, after. 

But Dean knows that the stink of the pyre is still in Sam's nose, just like it's in his own. Sam is looking out the window, silent in a way he hasn't been in a long while. His shoulders are down and his jaw clenches every few heartbeats.

Dean knows that what they burned wasn't actually the little brother they never knew they had. He knows it was the monster that ate the kid, and his mom. But that didn't mean that Adam Milligan wasn't real. He was.

Dean doesn't remember exactly when those times were—when John Winchester must have been spending baseball games with Adam, teaching him poker. 'Dropping everything, driving all night' when he found out he had another kid.

The fact is, Sammy was right: there would’ve been no way for them to know. Their Dad was gone for weeks at a time. Sometimes that meant he left them with Bobby. Sometimes, well, they got left with each other. And they took care of each other, no doubt about that.

Dean looks sideways, at the bandages criss-crossing across Sam's skin, the way he’s listing against Baby’s side. But he’s alive.

No doubt about that.

And if their dad had taken care of Adam the same way he'd taken care of them, rather than this apple pie pre-med existence that Adam got to live, would the kid and his mom still be alive?

No answers there, either.

"How you feelin'?" Dean finally asks, a few hours of dark highway onwards. He’s pretty sure they’re most of the way through Iowa by now. It’d be a beautiful winter evening, just a little cooler than late fall, if not for the fact that nothing seems at all beautiful right this second.

"Let's stop for the night," Sam says, and Dean doesn't argue.

They're both a little zombie-like, getting a room, grabbing their bags, putting up a couple of basic protections. It's by rote, even more so this night than most others. When they're done, Dean knows exactly what he wants, but he doesn't want to leave Sam alone either. He lets Sam sit and marinate for a bit while Dean checks out the local economy in the flyers in the motel entryway (bars and diners, mostly). Eventually, after it looks like Sam unclenches a bit, Dean sighs, loudly. "You wanna get a drink?"

Sam, surprisingly, takes him up on it. 

They hit the local dive bar, get just a tiny bit tipsy, murder some yuppy asshole in pool, and walk out laughing just a bit. Dean feels a little lighter and Sam looks a little less shadowed. So it's only with a little guilt that Dean sends Sam off on his own.

"There's a bartender, Sammy," Dean smiles, lasciviously, "and I think she's the love of my life."

Sam snorts. "You mean, of the next six hours."

Sam thinks Dean’s hook-ups last six hours? Dean would take that as a compliment, ordinarily.

"Hey, treat every girl like a princess, right?" Dean jokes, and swallows down the weird bitter pill of the lies he just told. It's nice to be able to joke with Sammy, but lying about Cas is starting to hurt a little.

Sam doesn't notice anything is wrong and starts his slow, five block walk back to the motel with nothing more than a wave over his shoulder and a mild "please disinfect the back seat when you're done."

Dean drives until there's a shadowy stretch of shoulder at the edge of the empty road he can pull Baby onto. He hasn’t seen anyone’s headlights but his own in a half hour. He climbs out and looks up at the thin clouds stretched over the night sky. Baby's engine is warm against his back as he leans on the hood. He swallows.

 _Cut off from Heaven._ Dean does and doesn't know what that's like, but he understands what it means: Cas's resources are finite. And it feels so selfish to call.

But Dean calls anyway. 

"Hey, Cas," he says, aloud—because he can, because the only person around to hear is the only one he wants to hear. "You don't... you know, if you're doing stuff, you don't have to come. I know you've got shit goin' on. But... I miss you."

He's not even halfway through his last sentence when he feels the pressure like a thick comforter over his skin, hears the soft flap of wings. The relief of it is staggering.

"Hey," he says, turning just enough to catch Cas's gaze.

"I miss you, too," Cas says, so seriously it catches in Dean's throat.

The interesting thing about one person wearing a ring on their right hand and their partner wearing it on their left? When they hold hands, threading their fingers together, the rings click in a satisfying way. Dean likes it: it feels like another point of connection, and tonight he really needs that. If this were another life, if he were another person, Dean might throw himself into Cas's arms and bury himself in the hug he thinks he really wants. 

But it's not that time or that place, and Dean isn't that person. Not yet, or at least, not right now.

So instead, for now, they sit, mostly leaning on Baby's warm, comforting hood, holding hands and staring at the stars shrouded by clouds. Eventually, Cas leans on him, resting his head on Dean's shoulder.

"There's something wrong," Cas says quietly. He doesn't ask; it’s not a question. He doesn't make Dean speak. "I can tell—and I know that must feel unsettling for you, how often I know these things—but I like knowing how you’re feeling. If that's okay with you?"

The thing of it is, normally he'd be right about it bothering Dean. Privacy is a thing for Dean, maybe because he's had precious little of it. But Cas isn't purposefully invading his space. He just speaks a language most other people can't. Besides, Dean can tell some pretty private stuff about what’s going on in Cas’s noggin, given half a chance.

Dean squeezes their hands more tightly together. "Yeah, Cas. It's okay with me."

Cas doesn't ask what happened. He just holds on, and lets Dean touch—lets the curve of Dean's hand rest inside his, their rings brushing, brushing. The touch could be just friendly, the way Cas's side is resting against his as just a run of cloth and weight, but the way their fingers link is an intimacy that Dean didn't know he needed.

Finally, he speaks up. He didn't know he was going to tell Cas about it until he does.

"I had—we had—another brother. We never knew about him." Dean tilts his head back to look at the sky again, but he can feel the weight of Cas's attention, that thing that's old and quiet and gentle inside his skin. They’re close enough that the motion makes Cas's dark hair brush against his ear. "He's dead."

Cas breathes, softly. "I'm sorry," he says, finally, low, and his hand squeezes Dean's tight. He turns just enough to kiss Dean's shoulder. It's not even the shoulder with the print on it, or a sexual thing. It's just... there, that tightening of their connection, but it reaches deep in. Like a touch. Maybe like that hug that Dean still can't quite reach for.

Cas doesn't say that he understands. Dean knows that he does. Maybe before he'd lived his human life, he might not have—but this Cas, this angel next to him with a twin brother who helped break him out of an asylum, he does.

They spend time just being, just leaning gently on each other and sitting quietly. The clouds scatter away, leaving the sky clear and spackled with stars. Dean wonders if Cas sees the same awesomeness in the night sky as an angel as he did that night as a human, but he doesn't ask. He's out of words, and all he wants is what he's got, right here and now.

Eventually, Cas shifts a little. He kisses Dean's shoulder again before pulling their combined hands into his lap. "I miss Jimmy." There's a depth of grief there that makes Dean want to find a giant eraser and rub it out. "And I’m so sorry to hear about your brother, even though you didn’t know him.” His thumb plays across Dean’s palm. “Heaven likes to think of themselves as brothers and sisters; after all, we were all created by the same entity. But they have no concept of family like you—like we do."

Dean lets his arm stay relaxed so that Cas can examine their entwined hands. He worries his lip, holding in a question that seems… indelicate.

"I'm not lonely anymore, Dean," Cas says, not looking at him, but warmth all over his words. "I could never be lonely again."

Dean flushes all over, both slightly embarrassed and greatly warmed. "Um. Good."

He knows that Cas is smiling at him, now, but maybe Dean's still a little too embarrassed to look. He feels, more than sees, Cas's free hand reaching across their bodies and turning Dean’s chin towards Cas. He's so close, and when Cas moves into the motion, Dean can't stop himself from turning with him. He ends up with his back to Baby, and his front full of a warm angel still holding his hand.

The kiss is soft, and gentle. It's like saying 'hello,' or 'welcome home.' It's too knowing for the fact that this is so new, and it feels like everything—Cas keeps teaching him about things that he didn't know he wanted. Dean sighs against Cas's mouth, and when they break apart—not too long later—he lets their foreheads rest together. Cas's eyes are closed.

So Dean doesn't expect the little flare of hunger that aches in his gut, and he pushes it back down before it can make a damned nuisance of itself. Cas smiles and it's like warmth against his side. His free hand strokes Dean's face slowly, in soft tiny stretches. His fingertips travel down Dean's chin and neck in gentle teases of sensation that skitter down his spine.

Cas kisses him again and again. Still soft, still slow, but incrementally deeper. Dean knows Cas’'ll stop if Dean shows the slightest reluctance, and that somehow makes it better. Dean lets himself be kissed and touched and it's like tiny little bits of love showering all over him. It's enough to make it easy to forget how to breathe. Cas stokes that tiny flare of hunger carefully until Dean is achy all over with something he knows is arousal, but it’s never really felt this easy inside him before.

Dean doesn't want to stop—he really, really doesn't want to stop—but he has to make something clear. He pulls back just enough that they're breathing into each other's space, but not overlapping. In the dark of a road without street lights, Cas's eyes are rimmed with shadows and warmth when Dean looks into them. "Hey, uh, y'know, I..." he swallows. "I really wasn't expecting—or looking for—it wasn't—"

Shit, Dean's a smooth customer, he knows he is, so why's he tripping over his tongue like this?

Probably because before any of this, before Cas, Dean _was_ always trying to get someone into his bed, rather than trying to make it clear to them that that's not all he wants from them.

Cas's thumb feathers back and forth at his chin. "Yes?" he says, gently.

"This wasn't a booty call or anything," Dean blurts. "I just..."

(Right. Yeah. Real smooth, Winchester.)

He's not surprised that Cas's eyes go creased at the corners when he smiles—fuck, Dean's such a disaster sometimes. But he _is_ surprised at the next kiss: it's slow, but it's not soft, Cas's tongue dipping in and in and in like he can't get enough of Dean's taste.

If Cas was just gently stoking the little flare of hunger and want before, he just tossed kindling and gasoline on it. Dean's gasping and shaking a little when he pulls back.

"I know, Dean," Cas says, and the warmth in it isn't lust—it's so much better than that. "I know. But I want to be here for you. I want to be here with you."

Normally, Dean might make some sly comment about just being that irresistible. But because it's Cas, he just sort of gracefully croaks out an "oh."

Cas kisses him again, full throttle, 100% tongue and teeth and the slow beginning burn of arousal. Dean can't do much of anything but hold on as Cas's free hand roams, running down Dean's side, across Dean's ribs, down to the small of his back, rubbing circles that should be soothing. Instead, those little rings of gentle touch are practically sparking right down Dean’s tailbone to criss-cross at his dick, which is getting really fucking interested in the proceedings.

"Dean?" Cas says, raspy and deep as he settles into the space between Dean's legs. Dean doesn’t remember parting them; that probably happened when he started to get hard.

Dean's head wants to fall back; Cas is kissing at his neck, both hands on his hips, large and steady. "Yeah?" he slurs.

"Hold on." Dean just has a moment to think _Why?_ before Cas _lifts_ him onto the hood. Dean's arms clutch at his shoulders at the suddenness with which his feet leave the ground, while his mind sort of whites out at the idea that Cas can just put him three more feet up on the Impala's hood without breaking a sweat.

"Fuck," Dean gasps, and when he unwraps himself from around Cas's neck, he finds himself seated on Baby's hood with a tent in his pants and the dark wrapping around them on this little deserted back road. "Cas."

Cas smiles at him from his position looking down at Dean, still standing. He reaches down and rests his hands on Dean's thighs. The rub of them up and down, along those big muscles, the touch blunted by denim, should just feel like a massage—not that Dean's ever really had one of those, but he can imagine it.

Dean's pretty sure he's never really thought much about just how, in this position, Baby's hood is _just_ the right height for...

Cas's eyes slide down his body and come to rest on the bulge of Dean's jeans. He smiles—small and so damned pleased it sends a shiver down Dean's back. "May I?" he asks.

Dean's never going to get over how polite Cas is, sometimes.

Dean should be saying "What?" He should be saying, "Wait, here?" He should be...

He should be nodding, not able to look away from the curve of Cas's mouth when Dean's angel deliberately licks his lips. Yup, that's exactly what he should be doing.

Even after Dean's frantic head nod, Cas takes his time. He runs his hands up and down Dean’s thighs a few more times, and only when Dean whimpers just a tiny bit does Cas move on, pulling Dean’s shirt up and popping the button on his pants. He leans in and kisses the skin there, chin bumping gently against the lump in Dean's pants. Dean's breath hitches and his hips twitch just a bit.

Cas nuzzles slowly lower, letting his fingers move the zipper practically one tooth at a time downwards. His lips are soft against Dean's stomach, his breath hot and lingering. It's electric. Dean's a fan of foreplay, but with Cas, each little bit is just as good as the end result sometimes. When the spread of his zipper finally frees his aching cock, Dean sighs in relief, just a little.

Cas runs his nose over the bulge in Dean’s boxers, rubbing sweetly. His hands are back on Dean's still-clothed thighs, spreading him gently, fitting his thumbs into sensitive spaces like he knows exactly where to press. He leans further in, and Dean has to hold his breath. 

But Cas just smiles against the side of Dean's cock, the nudge of his lips like a seesaw of careful heat. "I thought we'd said something about going without underwear," he teases.

But he doesn't give Dean a chance to respond before he licks a stripe up him, from where the zipper teeth meet at the bottom all the way up to a teasing flick right off where Dean's cockhead is already trying to salute through his boxers. It's just barely pressure, just barely warmth, a tantalizing hint of wet. It's not enough, but that doesn't keep Dean's cock from leaking into the front of his boxers.

From the way Cas wraps his lips around the head of Dean's still-clothed cock and sucks, his tongue darting right at the brand new wet spot in the cloth like he's trying to taste Dean right through it, he somehow knows it.

"Oh, shit," Dean groans. He's holding himself up on his bent elbows—no way in hell he's going to miss watching Cas being Cas, no way—but all of a sudden holding his head up is a little more difficult than it should be. "Cas, sweetheart..."

He feels that little smile again, but this time, it's at his very tip. "Let's get you a little more comfortable." The hand on Dean’s thigh trails up to tug at Dean's waistline.

Dean eagerly wedges his hips upwards, and Cas shimmies his jeans down to just under the curve of his ass; Dean’s never been so glad that he wears loose jeans before. It's a little breathtaking to feel the warm metal of the Impala through just his shorts, and the contrast to the sharp night air is something else. Cas's hands then trail down, down, down to his left shoe, which is deftly untied and pulled off, dropped... somewhere, Dean doesn't care where. Then his jeans are slowly shifted again, just far enough down for Cas to bend his left knee and pull.

One leg now bare, Cas runs his hand back up the inside, nails scraping bluntly at Dean’s inner thigh. Dean worries he's going to be a bit chilly until Cas doesn't actually put his leg down, but rather, hoists it over his shoulder, knee practically pressing into Cas’s ear. Cas turns his head just enough to kiss Dean’s bare knee and then leans back in, thumbs drifting to Dean's hip bones, circling slowly, teasing the edge of his boxers now and then.

"Better?" Cas asks, just before he leans in to kiss the head of Dean's cock where it rests, sticky and sensitive, under its damp patch of underwear.

Dean's pretty sure he didn't have any problems with what they were up to in the first place, but since the two of them seem to have an allergy to actually getting naked, this is nice. It's good. It's—

Cas's calluses run just inside his hipbone, rasping gently into the crease between hip and thigh through Dean’s boxers. He's not even touching Dean's dick skin to skin, and it's fucking fantastic.

So when Cas, after a few more teasing little nuzzles, mouths and coaxes Dean's cock out of the slit of his boxers without even using his _hands_ , Dean's ass almost leaves the warm metal surface behind him.

Or it would. Except for the fact that he’s got one leg over Cas’s shoulder, and Cas's hands are framing Dean on both sides—one on his hip and one on the opposite thigh, Cas’s weight gentle on them. He holds Dean against the hood as effortlessly as he picked him up and carried him onto it. Just the head of Dean's cock stays settled against the warm curl of his tongue.

“Mm,” Cas murmurs, popping off and licking his lips. He sounds pleased.

“Huh?” is all Dean’s stunned tongue manages to get out.

“I am so glad we don’t have to use condoms for this. I have been looking forward to finding out how you taste,” Cas informs him, like that’s just something that he can just come out and _say_. Dean can’t even come up with something smartassed to say to that before Cas ducks down and starts going to work.

Dean doesn't recall the last time he got a really good BJ—yeah, he’s gotten them before, of course. But he doesn't normally consider them all that memorable.

This? This is memorable.

Cas was right those weeks ago. Warm, wet, tight: most of the time, erections are kind of easy. But this is more than the sum of its parts. It's Cas's tongue down the underside of Dean’s erection, wet and rippling; it’s the head of Dean’s cock rubbing against the roof of Cas's mouth, just the perfect amount of pressure and suction to keep Dean's toes curled. Cas bobs up and down slowly, so slowly, sucking just right, and even in the dark, Dean can't look away from those lips spread pink and soft around his cock.

"Oh, baby," Dean gasps, "Fuck! Please, like that." Cas’s rhythm is torturous and sweet and fucking amazing. But as much as Dean wants to move into it, the firm hold on his hips and the lack of leverage he’s got with his leg over Cas’s shoulder prevent all but the smallest of wiggles—and Dean suspects those are only with Cas's approval.

He feels Cas's lips tighten and curve—oh, God, that's a smile, isn't it? Cas just _smiled_ around his cock—but Dean can't really think of why. He can't really think at all.

All he can let himself do is be taken apart, fall into the careful, deliberate pattern of suction, in and out. When Cas's hand leaves his hip, it leaves warm achy prints behind it that make Dean realize just how hard he must have been pressing up against Cas's fingers. Cas is still bobbing, spectacularly coordinated, as his fingertips trace along the inside of Dean's thigh, dance at the sensitive crease of his groin.

When Dean’s hips try to shift into the motion and roll into the touch, he gets a gentle, warning nudge with Cas's tongue and a press of a firm palm against his thigh. Okay, Dean can get the picture. No wiggling.

Dean lets his head fall back and makes himself be still—and fuck if that doesn't make every little sensation, every hint of texture, the delicate skim of the tip of Cas's tongue up and down his underside, all the more intense.

He needs something, though, just a little something more, it's fucking fantastic, but he's almost untethered—and then Cas carefully brings Dean's hand to his hair. That's—yeah. That's perfect too. Dean doesn't push, doesn't suggest; he just rests it there, feeling the soft tufts of hair under his fingertips as Cas’s head moves, up and down. It's grounding in just the right ways.

Cas goes back to taking him apart one spit-slick moment at a time. Dean realizes he’s talking nonsense into the night air, now. A lot of praise, a lot of 'holy fucks,' and a lot of 'you're so perfect, Cas' with a small side of 'oh God, please, please, please.' Cas seems to love them all: he smiles and hums and looks up at Dean from under his lashes and it's all so fucking good.

Dean's not going to last much longer. That's really okay with him, because his dick wants to move into Cas's mouth permanently and never leave. 

Cas just keeps taking him and taking him, back and forth, the perfect cool contrast of the night air against spit-wet skin. Dean’s not exactly sure what’s going on, or even what he wants anymore, when Cas shifts around between his legs. The hand that was holding Dean’s hip sneaks down and sideways, and lifts Dean’s other leg over Cas’s shoulder, which leaves him completely splayed open in a way that’s not exactly comfortable. Dean’s about to say something when Cas pulls back almost all the way to the tip, but the words stall out in the sensation of the hot wrap of suction as Cas dips his chin, and keeps going down and down and—

Dean sort of forgot he had an arm propped up underneath him so he could watch, in addition to the one whose hand is in Cas’s hair, but it nearly collapses under him. He can't keep still anymore when he feels Cas's nose nudge right into the cloth of his boxers, feels the tight squeeze around the head of his cock—oh, holy fuck. Dean might not have much experience sucking dick, but he sure as hell can't do _that_.

"Cas, sweetheart, oh God, Cas," he gasps, and his hand grips tightly into Cas's hair because Dean sure as hell doesn't want to move and hurt him or something, but he has to do something. He knows he's babbling, went down the wire into babbling a while ago. The little tuck of Cas’s mouth that says that Cas is proud of himself tightens around the base of Dean’s cock. Cas swallows. Oh, holy shit. "I can't, I can't..."

He's not sure what he can't, because Cas gently eases off and up, going back to gentle little bobbing strokes right at the head of him. Dean almost whines. Up until he realizes the hand Cas had stroking the back of Dean’s thigh has moved up, midline. Right through Dean’s boxers, Cas starts gently petting and weighing the tight pull of his balls against the cup of his palm.

And continues downwards and behind with just two fingertips.

Dean didn't think he could moan any louder, but it turns out, he's wrong. He might actually be running out of oxygen, because every time Cas's fingers press slowly in and rub in a tight circle at that stretch of muscle and skin, Dean's lungs lose air. Cas goes in for a second slow, deep suck where Dean's cock touches the back of his throat and Dean's entire body shudders with pleasure before Cas pulls back again.

Finally, finally, Cas seems to find a new rhythm. A shallow hard suck and a firm press of fingers. Back and forth, back and forth and finally, finally, Cas gives Dean permission to move: his free hand, the one gripping the side of Dean's thigh, starts showing him a rocking motion. Up into Cas's mouth and the sweep of Cas’s tongue, down onto the fingers pressing perfectly right behind his balls. Each roll of his hips jolts heady pleasure through him. Dean may be out of words at this point: he's mostly huffing syllables and shallow grunts and Cas's name. It's like there's no relief, no getting away from where Cas has him wrapped up in pleasure no matter which way his hips move.

Not that Dean would want to go anywhere. No, fuck no, he doesn't want to be anywhere but here.

Dean's had a finger pressing into the stretch of his taint before, and it was just fine, really. It was okay, especially when he was really turned on. It was how Dean knew Cas might be into it when it was Dean's turn to try. But it wasn't like being splayed open on his Baby's hood with his toes curling into every motion—as far as he can, anyway, with both legs hooked over Cas's shoulders and his whole body arched open for Cas to touch and taste.

But Cas pauses—just stops, fully stops, with his mouth warm around the tip of Dean's cock. This time, Dean does make a wordless noise that might be protest, might be a whine, or might be a sob.

So he feels it through every damned inch of him when the fingers Cas has between his legs skirt a little further back from Dean’s taint. Just a little, narrowing down to just the tip of one finger, and the sensation goes from being pressure to, to... he's not even sure what to call it.

Dean realizes, dizzily, what's happening when Cas makes a small, inquisitive noise around him, and makes like he's actually going to pull _off_ Dean's cock. Like he legitimately wants to _ask_ about this.

"Yes!" Dean gasps out. "Yes. You can. It's good. Fine. Please!" He's back to babbling, and Cas finally starts moving again, mouth hotter than sin and just as soft. The finger moves, notable even over the boxers Dean's wearing, and then it presses into the crease of Dean’s ass again. Just lightly, cotton rubbing and sliding over delicate nerve endings that Dean never ever thought would feel like this. Like lightning in a bottle and pleasure personified. Holy fuck, Cas is using his thumb, too—pressing behind Dean’s balls at the same time his other finger curves deeper and nudges back and forth in the crease of Dean’s ass..

Dean's gonna come, like soon. Really soon. And it's going to blow his head off and that is super fine with him. His whole body is on fire with it, pleasure curling at every molecule. And Cas, beautiful, perfect Cas, just keeps going, making it all warm and wet and electric.

The pressure behind his balls, the sparks of tickle-not-tickle as Cas's fingertip rubs tiny circles over Dean's hole through his boxers, the deliberate pull of suction, are, together, fucking impossible to resist. It's so good that Dean almost doesn't manage to get the words out in a way that a human being might be able to understand. 

But no matter how epic the blowjob, Dean has to warn Cas, has to give him the chance to pull off.

"Cas, Cas," he chokes out, craning his neck back upwards and lifting back up on his elbow. The tip upwards of Cas's gaze, meeting his, almost undoes him right there. "Sweetheart, I'm gonna, I'm—"

Cas just _nods_. 

And goes right back to work, giving Dean one last suck all the way down his throat and another gentle rub against his hole. Dean cries out, "F—fuck. Sweetheart, fuck," as he feels himself start to tip over the point of no return, but Cas backs off just enough so that the head of Dean's cock is surrounded by soft, soft tongue and palate. 

Dean can’t hold back anymore; he doesn’t want to. He comes, back arching. Cas's fingers and his sinful mouth follow the way Dean’s hips leave Baby’s surface, still sucking and stroking and pressing, orgasm extending like taffy.

Cas swallows between one pulse and then next; Dean shudders a little at the sight and the sensation, extra zings of pleasure running through him. He's sweaty and jittery and still fucking _coming,_ just a little. Cas leans back until it's just the head of Dean’s cock in his mouth, one hand gently pumping the shaft, wringing a few more shudders out of Dean. When Dean’s finally done, Cas pops off, lips swollen and spit-slick and fucking gorgeous.

Dean might just pass out though, fucking hell.

Dean is pretty sure it can’t get better than this. It takes him a moment to unlock the elbow behind him and let himself slump back against Baby's cooling hood. The small shaky noise he makes when Cas gently unfolds where Dean's legs are completely limp over his shoulders might be a little pathetic—the weight of Cas between his legs, the solid push of his shoulders under Dean's knees and the back of Dean’s thighs, felt really nice, and Dean liked it. He shivers as Cas lets him straighten out and tucks him carefully back into his boxers—for what that coverage is worth right now, anyway, with Dean's jeans still dangling off one thigh. Okay, Dean’s starting to remember it’s pretty cold out here.

But it's only for a second. Cas climbs up on Baby’s hood beside him and curls in close, warm as a radiator, one arm draping over Dean's belly and his chin on the arc of Dean's shoulder. And that makes it just what Dean wanted.

Dean doesn't even have to look to see Cas's smile. He certainly doesn't have to look to feel his own, curling at the corners of his lips and all through his eyes.

It takes a good few quiet, happy minutes before something really important percolates through Dean's sex-stupid brain, though. He turns to peer at him, frowning. Wait. Wait, Cas just... but what about _Cas?_

"Oh. I'm good," Cas says, his voice absolutely wrecked—and dear God, that's hot. It sends a little shiver through Dean's already wrung-out body. "This was for you." He tucks his head further into Dean's shoulder. Almost... shyly? "Besides I, uh…" He clears his throat nervously. "You were very... inspirational."

Dean blinks. Oh. 

OH. 

Fuck, if Dean could, he'd get hard again. As it is, his dick tries valiantly. 

"That's all kinds of hot," Dean says, and that's when he realizes his own voice is also hoarse. God, they might have scared the wildlife away.

They settle down for a bit, just enjoying the afterglow. Cas deliberately spreads the edge of his coat over Dean's more naked side, tucking them into a warm, cocoonish state. Cas also, just briefly, nuzzles the edge of the handprint, and it buzzes contentment and satisfaction through Dean. He closes his eyes and enjoys the play of feelings—his own, maybe some of Cas’s— across his nerves.

Dean’s heart rate finally comes down enough for blood to start coming back to his brain. That’s about when he realizes exactly the position Cas was standing in when he came. 

"Cas?" Dean asks, mock-seriously.

"Hmm?" Cas sounds very tranquil.

"Did you hump my car?"

Cas freezes briefly, every muscle locking into place before abruptly relaxing. A peal of laughter comes out of his mouth.

"Well, you _do_ find her very attractive," Cas teases back, a little tentatively, like he's not quite sure anyone'll find his jokes funny. "Why shouldn't I?"

That gets a snicker out of Dean, too. He turns to bury his face in the little messy spikes of hair just over Cas's forehead, his lips pressing into that little crease between Cas's eyes. "You're fucking awesome, Cas," he says, and the burst of well, love, that's sticking in his throat makes his voice even more hoarse than it was a second ago. Then he grins. "So are we gonna try out every surface on Baby, or what?"

Cas hums thoughtfully against his shoulder and readjusts his coat so they're snuggled a little closer together. Dean's not quite expecting it when Cas answers, "Yes, alright. Shall we move to the front seat? We should try not to get your jeans caught on the wheel."

Dean opens his eyes and gapes at him. "Wait, what?"

Cas manages to keep up his wide-eyed, serious look for about three heartbeats before he laughs.

Oh, fine, be a smug asshole when Dean’s too fucked-out to figure out a good comeback. He starts laughing, too, instead.

Dean doesn't remember laughing this much before, during, or after sex in a long time. It's a good feeling. 

Also, he's not going to admit it, but Cas using Baby to finish getting off? That's, uh… that's the kind of thing Dean's gonna have to think long and hard about: whether he finds that just really hot in general, or if it's just that Cas has defiled Dean’s car in a way even Dean hasn't, and that somehow gives him strange wiggly feelings in his stomach.

He feels lighter than before. And it's not the sex, though that helps. (A lot.) 

It's... Cas—Cas, who doesn't expect anything from Dean that he can't give, but who sometimes knows what he needs before Dean does. He feels a stab of guilt about Sam. He and Sam used to be a lot like that, but now Dean knows Sam is keeping secrets from him, and Dean is definitely returning the favor. That they probably have different reasons is beside the point. Dean can't wait for the day when the air’s clear between them again. At a moment like this, Dean believes it’s possible.

Cas's hand strokes softly down his cheek. "We don't have much longer."

Dean sighs and puts those thoughts out of his head. There'll be time for all of that other stuff after, when his brain isn't pleasure-soaked and his limbs aren’t still tingly with orgasm.

"Thanks, Cas," Dean says, kissing Cas's forehead, because he's starting to realize he can do things like that, now. He can have those little touches.

It's not that Dean’s got any fewer regrets about the poor damned kid who got John's time when he couldn't give it to his other kids. Adam Milligan got the baseball games and the mom and the birthdays, and then managed to go out under the Winchester curse anyway without ever getting the brothers that went with it. It's not that Dean doesn’t feel guilty and sad and mad. He'll probably never stop feeling shitty about all of it.

But Cas is lying next to him, their bodies cooling on Baby's hood with the dark of a late winter night wrapping them close. Sam is probably snoring his sinuses out in their motel room. There’s a voicemail from Bobby on Dean’s phone. They’ve got some people to save and an Apocalypse to stop.

Right now, Dean knows that he's got all the family he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways.”   
> —Psalm 91:11, New International Version
> 
>  **Ami:** Are we having fun yet? Yep, that plot is just creeping right on in. Excellent.
> 
> P.S. For those playing along at home, the "Orgasms while still fully or mostly clothed" count: 3.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Ami:** Well we're really in it now. BEHOLD. PLOT. We're one away from the chapter I most anticipated writing. How's that for teasing?

The existence of Chuck and his books comes as a big-ass shock. Like. Super fucking huge, life-altering, possibly-peeing-in-pants shock. Not the least of which is because this Chuck Shurley asshole is right on the money in the published books, so what if he knows more than that? 

The books end when Dean goes to Hell. But there has to be more than that. What if he knows about Cas? Better, but somehow weirdly worse too, what if this Chuck dude knows what’s up with fucking Lilith? Sam will never let it go.

All of which is to say, Dean's in a mood when they finally come face to face with the nebbishy little drunk. Dean wants to complain that it's not his fault he's yelling, not really: there's no fucking healthy way to process some dude writing about your life like a big time voyeur with binoculars that can see, like, _everywhere_.

By the time they’ve convinced Chuck that they’re the real deal and not some really big fans, he’s stopped looking at them like they might implode in a Misery sort of way and more like an actual, much more immediately violent sort of of way. Chuck takes one step back like he thinks Dean might shoot him. Well, there’s that possibility—

"Dean," Cas says, from behind Dean and Sam.

Dean is the only one who doesn't jump. He felt the flap. "Cas," Dean greets him, dryly, peering back over his shoulder. "Lemme guess. You know about Chuck?"

Cas, though, doesn't smile. "He's a Prophet of the Lord. Please don't threaten him.” He arches one sassy little eyebrow. “No matter how much you might want to."

Sam makes a little choked noise, though it's anyone's guess if that's because of the 'Prophet of the Lord' business or because Cas is showing off just how well he knows Dean.

"No promises," Dean growls, narrowing his eyes. "Wait, what's a Prophet of the Lord?" He’s trying to decide if that’s a better or worse choice than the previous ‘capricious god’ vs ‘pervert psychic.’

Chuck flinches. "Look, guys," he says, uneasily, then tries on a sickly smile. "This was so much easier before I knew you were real."

They all ignore him.

"He's a conduit for the Word of God. The past, the future," Cas says, very seriously. "Prophets are protected and monitored—an archangel may come and attempt to smite you if he perceives you as a real threat."

Yeah, well. Dean doesn’t know if Cas is referring to the archangel or Chuck, but Chuck had better fucking perceive them as a real threat.

Dean stops when he realizes what that means, his eyes flying back to Cas. "Wait.” He looks around. No winged dicks, though—not yet. “Then should we even be here?"

Cas shrugs. "I'm monitoring the area. I suspect that unless Chuck is in direct and dire danger, they're more likely to want to use this opportunity to attempt to track us after we leave."

Dean nods, already knowing Cas is going to suggest angeling them away if it comes down to that. Dean wants to say ‘no,’ because last time it left Cas so drained, and fucking _bleeding_ out of his mouth. They might not have a choice, though.

Chuck has slipped away deeper into the house in their distraction. Dean watches him climb the stairs with two bottles under his arms, muttering something about narrative, and decides that fuck it, he's not going after the dude. Chuck’s not going anywhere, and they’ve got Cas watching for wings. Instead he distributes some of the stacks of pages of the ‘unpublished works’ to Sam and Cas, and they start reading.

It's creepy how close to their lives a lot of it is. Like... really fucking creepy. Every heartbeat, every streak of blood. The rip at the seam of one of Dean's favorite flannels, the one that Dean patched back together with yellow rather than dark green, because that was all they had left in the little shitty sewing kit that they haul around. The color of Sam’s jeans. The Legos in Baby’s heating system.

But there's just something, every few pages, that jolts Dean weird. Because he sure as hell was ticked off about what happened Adam: that much is true. But in this supposed work of nonfiction? Dean went out and pulled away the _bartender_ to drown out his thoughts.

Which... didn't happen.

Dean licks his finger and starts flipping back pages. Something's different here. Something just ain’t right...

Dean stops and reads through a scene that he thinks he’d remember pretty damned well, halfway through the first manuscript. Then reads it again, for good measure. 

Wait. ‘Anna?’ Who the hell is that?

Look, Dean's not out. But in the abandoned church where they first found Cas? No twin sibling freaking out... Even if this was some sort of weird erasure thing, from the description of how she talks and acts and looks, 'Anna' doesn't seem all that much like Cas. 

He glances up at Cas’s dark profile and bowed head, the way he runs his thumb over the angle of his jaw as he reads, and smirks. Nope. Definitely can't imagine him as a redhead.

Cas cocks his head, and Dean just grins at him and goes back to reading. 

Okay, him and 'Anna' are leaning against Baby in Bobby's back lot, and...

And, goddammit, the story gets steamy. Like, literally steamy, sure—Dean doesn't want to admit that happens in Baby, because it really does, her windows totally fog up from the inside—but the writing's just fucking _purple_. 

Dean’s got no problem with girls; of course he doesn’t. Maybe he should be happy he’s making it with a hot redhead in this story. But he also just knows the reality of it was so much better than any of this bullshit: so much hotter, so _close_. It was Cas's fingertips smoothing over the edge of his handprint, the one _he_ left on Dean—the revelation that was his tongue...

Earlier, Dean heard the rustle of the trench coat while he was reading—he didn't really register it, it's just Cas pacing back and forth—but he suddenly feels the light brush of breath over his cheek. Cas leans over his shoulder, eyes intent on what's in Dean’s hands.

Oh. Oh, shit. Dean doesn’t know if he wants to crumple the pages up, burn them, or yell, “It wasn’t me, I didn’t do it!”

Why does Dean feel weirdly like he just cheated on Cas, or something?

"Oh," Cas says, completely fucking placid. "Anna. She's a good soldier. Though what she's doing in this story, I don't know."

Dean looks up and forces his hands not to turn the pages in his hands into paper mache. "You know her?"

Cas is still looking over his shoulder, eyes still calmly skimming the words. "If this is the same Anna, then yes. She was our garrison leader for a time, and quite probably your type."

What the hell. The paper crumples a little in Dean's hands. Cas leans one arm around, fingertip brushing over to a line of something purple but, uh, explicit. Dean does not ever, ever want to read that detailed a description of his cock ever again, and it’s especially creepy because, shit, he really does have a freckle right there. "Though I don't know her well enough to know if she'd do that, with her tongue. She might, though.” Cas bobs his chin, his tone thoughtful. “If she were human. She's very commanding. Do you like that?"

Dean's brain has gone a little offline because, what the actual fuck is happening here? 

Across the room, Sam snickers, not having looked up from his pages but obviously paying attention anyway. “Dean does like ‘commanding,’” he announces, then frowns. “Wait, what exactly are you two looking at?”

“N-nothing, it’s… just… shut up,” Dean sputters. 

Cas draws his arm back. This time, he slides nimble fingers over Dean's left shoulder, leaving little sparkles of amusement and affection behind them.

Dean wants to reach out and catch his hand as it draws away, but, well. He won't, and the amused glitter in Cas's eyes as he wanders back over towards Sam makes him wonder if Cas knows it. 

From the way Dean's pretty sure he just got teased—by a goddamned religious studies professor with angel grace, what the hell—Cas finds this whole description of some girl fooling around with Dean in Baby’s back seat funnier than Dean does.

It's not that Dean _hasn't_ been with girls in, well, pretty much exactly that situation. He has. It's just... different, now.

'Commanding,' huh? Dean snorts softly, and starts flipping forward through pages again. Never mind that past-life bullshit. They'll have to see about that. Another time, though.

But when he looks up, Sam's not smiling anymore. He's bent forward over the manuscript and gone white around the edges, a flash of ugly, hectic color at his cheeks. Cas, reading over his shoulder, doesn't look amused either.

"Lilith," Sam squeezes out. The pages crumple under his fingers. His eyes are tight and red. "He wrote about Lilith. And... and me."

"Sam?" Cas says. There's a gentleness to his voice that Dean’s not used to hearing when it’s not just the two of them. "May I see those?"

Sam stares at Cas for a long few seconds. Dean can read the distrust there, but Sam finally makes a decision and hands the papers over his shoulder. Cas reads them, long elegant fingers running over each line. Dean gets the impression that Cas, for as fast as he's reading, has slowed down significantly to make sure he misses nothing. 

When he finally looks up, his eyes look distant. "Interesting," he says, thoughtfully.

Sam's face goes whiter. "Me making the beast with two backs with Lilith is interesting to you?" He's on the edge of an angry hysteria that Dean's not sure he'll be able to defuse before Sam storms out.

Not that Dean can blame him. He shoots a glare at the angel. He can’t possibly believe that that was what Cas was talking about—and also, what the fuck, that’s gross, especially since Dean’s seen just how Chuck writes sex scenes. But yeah, that was a lousy choice of words, Cas.

Dean thinks these things, because he is not thinking about Sam ever choosing to have sex with Lilith. That’s just… that’s not happening. It’s never going to happen. _No._

Cas shakes his head and looks directly at Sam. "No. That is, quite frankly, disturbing,” he continues. “What's interesting is the deal she offers before that happens."

Sam all but recoils. "You think it's _interesting_ that she says she'll stop breaking seals if Dean and I give up and let her kill us?!"

Okay. The sex, Dean can’t believe. That, though… that, Dean can. His stomach drops.

Cas doesn't touch Sam—that’d be a mistake—but his eyes are gentle. He looks ancient, and knowing, and a little sad. "No. No, Sam, of course not. That... would be a terrible loss. To everyone, to the world. I think that you and your brother are more important than either of you will let yourself believe." 

He says it with such certainty that it sticks in Dean's throat.

That's what faith looks like, Dean thinks. And he really doesn't have the first damned idea what to do to live up to that faith, and it’s fucking terrifying. But he knows he wants to try.

But, at least, that makes the anger in Sam's shoulders duck down again. He slumps in a way that makes Dean’s chest hurt. "What, then?" he demands.

Cas traces words on the page with a finger. "She says she's killed off right before the 'good parts' start." He twitches his fingers up into air quotes. Shit, he's such a dork. "She seems to think that killing her _doesn't_ stop the apocalypse?"

"Right, because, if all the seals are broken..." but then Sam trails off, too, frowning.

Cas is right: that’s weird. If all the seals are broken, that lets the Devil out of the box. What’s killing Lilith before Lucifer starts making the world his playground?

Cas shakes his head, looking over the pages again before shaking the manuscript in his hand with a flutter. "I think that this, all this…” he gestures at the piles of pages, “is... one version of the truth. 

"One version?" Dean asks, hopefully

Cas meets his eyes for just a moment. “It _is_ the Word. It can't not be: Chuck is a true prophet.” His jaw works as he thinks. “But... like translations of the King James or semiotic copies of the Torah, I'm not sure it's the... only truth?"

Sam lets out a sharp little whistle of breath, like he’s been holding his. “You’re saying that this might be wrong,” he says, flatly. “Even though everything else we’ve seen looks right?”

“Not everything.” Cas passes Dean the papers so he can read them. Dean skims to the beginning of the… scene… that they were talking about, and puts the papers back down before he throws up all over them. "We already know that some of his current writings about recent events,” he points to the pile Dean was looking through earlier, “have things in them that are downright wrong. Is this because of Chuck aiming for something he can more easily sell to a new publisher, or simple translation errors inside his own brain? I don't know."

He walks over to a bookshelf, full of black paperback spines with big cheesy white lettering: the published novels. "I do know that these," he points to them, "don't contain the same translation errors. So maybe we should figure out what the common issue is?"

Dean agrees. As much as he hates research—and as much he does not, for one second, want to read more bullshit about his own kisses, much less anything else—they need more information.

Sam frowns. "How do you know his writings are downright wrong, though?" He points at the pages Dean was reading and that Dean shoved to the center of the table. "Dean really did make it with that bartender just the other day, after we found out about Adam. That’s a pretty specific and random detail."

Well... it is a specific and random detail, and yeah, Dean told Sam that he went out with that bartender. Except that wasn’t what actually happened. 

Dean doesn't look at Cas. Cas doesn’t say anything.

Dean snorts, instead. "Well, we didn't rescue an angel named Anna from an asylum, for one thing. No one's family got murdered..."

"...and in this..." Cas says, softly, looking up from another page, "You were the one who killed Alastair, Sam. Not me. After you..."

He trails off. Dean's not sure why Cas goes so quiet. 

But Sam's all the way white, now, and looking hard and harsh. "Okay. Yeah,” he says, something dull in his voice. His eyes flick away. “I... I see what you mean."

Dean really fucking hates research, but if it'll stop them from the end of the world, then so be it.

It's starting to get dark by the time Dean’s eyeballs start aching, and Sam leans back in his chair. "I don't get it." Dean’s little brother looks over. "It's like... I think what's different..."

Both of them turn to look at Cas.

Cas looks back at them and then goes to the bottom of the pile, to what Dean assumes is the first unpublished manuscript. Cas looks at the title page and raises an eyebrow. "’Lazarus Rising,’" he recites, then shakes his head. “I wonder which this refers to?”

Sam frowns. “What do you mean?”

Cas flips through the first few pages, eyes moving across the words. “There are two Lazarus characters in the New Testament,” he explains. “The first is a parable of a beggar who is taken to Heaven, to a place of comfort and rest. The second was the miracle of Christ raising the dead. It was what made the priests and Pharisees decide that Jesus had to die.” He arches an eyebrow at Dean again. “I’m not sure either of those suits the current situation, and certainly, no one ever asked what either Lazarus thought of all of it.”

Dean snorts. Right. There's a little too much biblical metaphor going on in his life. He takes the pages and scans the opening. It's pretty close to how he remembers it: the day is a little fuzzy and disorienting and streaked with white and red and panic in his own memories, because digging his way out of his own grave just fucks with a guy. But it looks mostly right. He skips ahead again, because Dean also has that sinking feeling that he knows what's different, and he doesn't want to explain to Sam _all_ of the changes.

Chuck's description of Cas's entrance into the barn is actually a lot better than Inais popping up like a jack-in-the-box in Dean’s motel room. Cas, if the writing is to be believed, is a dramatic fucker and Dean has seen it in person, so yeah, the writing for it is probably accurate. That’s exactly how it would have gone down. 

If Cas weren't already human and graceless, far away, and considered dead by his own kind.

"Uh. Yeah." Dean tosses the pages to Cas. Cas doesn’t look at them: he doesn’t look away from Dean. "I think we need to talk about exactly what happened when you fell, buddy." He doesn't look in Sam's direction. It feels like a really personal question to ask.

Cas also looks uncomfortable but, after a long pause, he drops his gaze and nods. He puts the papers in his hands down, leans back against the wall and fidgets with his fingers in a motion so human that it sends a little chill up Dean's back. 

"You have to understand that being an angel is... insulating,” Cas begins, his voice halting and awkward. He doesn't meet either of their eyes. “The world is beautiful—it's God's creation—but it doesn't move us. Humans are kind or cruel, generous or petty, but that was all just them being made... fallible: by our Father, by Lucifer's temptation. We were—I was... above all that."

His mouth curves in a small, humorless smile. He studies his thumbs. "Some of my brothers and sisters, as you've since learned, think that means that we angels are better than humans. They're wrong. We're just... soulless."

But there's a quiet hint of pain in that that makes the words a little bit of a lie. The mark on Dean's shoulder throbs.

It's Sam who says, softening a little, "I don't... but you seem like a pretty decent, uh... person, Cas."

Sam’s trying. He really is. Dean doesn’t know what to do with the bolt of gratefulness that goes through him at that. That’s Dean’s little brother, alright.

The soft, beautiful arc of Cas's mouth gains a little bit of true joy. "I hope so," he says, with a heart-twisting sincerity. "I try to be. But I'm sure—I'm very sure—it was because I met you, both of you, that I chose to fall. Because... some things were more important than the... 'Plan.'"

(There are the air quotes again. Dean can hear the capital letters, too. Jesus Christ.)

"Like what?" Dean asks, hoarse.

Cas's eyes rise just enough to meet his, and Dean can't look away. "Choice. Sacrifice. Free will. Love."

Dean's lips quirk. He wants to smile like they did that night on the hood of the car, but this isn’t the time for it. "Important things." He nods in agreement.

Sam looks less than convinced. “But you just met us,” he insists. “And you were already, you know. Fallen.”

“That’s… true, but it’s not. It’s complicated.” Cas shoves his hands into his trench coat pockets and Dean can see the faint outline of them curling into fists. "The siege of Hell lasted nearly twenty years before we finally had some movement. My garrison was in the lead. It was my strategy that broke the first ring."

Dean swallows past a dry throat. He's not sure he can hear the story of his own forty years in Hell, told from any perspective. Cas gives him another soft look and Dean wishes he could reach out, but it all seems so vast right now—the space between him and Cas, the chasm of all the things he hasn't told Sam.

"After that we made, in comparison, excellent progress. We took the next three circles in four years. And yet." Cas looks up this time. His shoulders are bunched-up under his coat, and his mouth flattens into an angry line. "I was called off the front lines. My strategy was questioned for its soundness. I was forced to leave standing orders to answer for it, but when I returned, my orders had not been followed. It was frustrating.” He blows out a breath between his teeth. “It seemed like every time I thought we had found a way forward, some new obstacle would appear."

"Wait," Sam says, looking genuinely confused. His hair swishes over his shoulder as he tilts his head from side to side. "Twenty years? Four years?"

Cas blinks, slowly. "Time is different in Hell. It's..." his eyes slide to Dean, and then settle back on Sam. His rough tones are quiet when he says, "It was a long time for you. But it was forty years for us."

Sam makes a soft choking noise. Dean can't make any sound at all.

He remembers. He remembers it all. All of it—

Cas, like he can't help himself, starts moving towards him, and touches Dean's shoulder—not the one with the mark, the other one, and Dean's glad. There's such a thing as too intense. There isn't forgiveness in that touch for what Dean did. It's like Cas thinks that there's nothing Dean did that needs forgiving.

Dean is sure Cas is wrong.

Cas's jaw moves, tightens. "It took me longer than I liked to realize that there was a problem. Because I am as arrogant as any angel, and I did not want to believe that the problem was not with Hell, with demons. The problem was not with Dean. The problem was coming from _Heaven._ And because of it I... I was too late."

Dean crosses his arms. He tightens every muscle—hugs himself, wanting to hold it all in. "Bullshit. It's not your fault." Those words are ripped from Dean's throat. "Cas, I'm the one who—" 

Dean's tearing up inside. Maybe outside, too. It's too much. He can’t do this.

"Because you were set up to fail," Cas says, soberly. "Six more years. For six more years, I failed to see what was so obvious a human child could have seen it. And because of it, you were at their mercy. I think I was only able to save you because they allowed it, not because… not through any wisdom of my own."

Cas's hand slides from his shoulder to squeeze Dean’s white-knuckled hand briefly before letting go entirely. "I left you there. I don't know if I'll ever forgive myself."

Dean knows there's nothing to forgive—not as far as Cas goes, anyway. Maybe Cas didn’t make it in time, but Dean’s the one who made all of his own choices.

"What changed?" Sam asks, cutting through the tension in a way that only Sam has ever done.

Cas looks away from Dean to Sam. "Excuse me?"

Sam shrugs. "The beginning of the siege took twenty years. You broke through more circles in four. Then they dicked around with you for six more. Something must have changed after that, right? If they let you rescue him, as you say, whatever it was they were waiting for must have happened. What was it?"

Cas says nothing. Dean can feel him waiting for his cue.

"Me, Sammy." Dean says, and his voice is already so thready. He hates it. He hates this. He hates that Cas is right there, and Dean doesn't feel like he can reach out. " _I_ changed."

Dean knows, if he looks at these pages in front of him, that the truth will be written there in black and white. He read them—skimmed a conversation with Sammy that they never had. Saw Alastair repeating words that burned and burned and burned when Dean heard them, even through the closed door.

Only in these pages, there was no closed door between them. Alastair said them to Dean's face as Dean held up a syringe, a knife, holy water. Alastair laughed and screamed and laughed again as Dean cut and stabbed and sliced.

In Chuck's head, in Chuck's visions, Dean became _that_ again. The knowledge makes him want to retch.

"They broke me, Sammy," Dean says, and his voice is harsher and thinner than Cas's, the edge of a reed. "Every day, they broke me. Then made me whole again, so they could do it again the next day. And every day, they told me they'd take me off the rack if I'd be the one to put someone else on it. If I'd take up the knife. For thirty years, I told 'em... stick it where the sun don't shine." Dean looks up. He can feel the tear running down his cheek, and it burns. "And then I got off that rack, and I..."

 _“No.”_ Cas's voice is like thunder, and as impossible to ignore. "You did not change, Dean Winchester. Your soul, what makes you glorious, did not change. How do you think I found you?" But his face pinches, and he lowers the tight jut of his shoulders, defeated. "But... the first seal had already been broken."

"The first..." Sam looks back and forth between them. "Wait, what? I thought the first seal was the... the ghosts. The spirits..."

Cas shakes his head. "When a righteous man sheds blood in Hell," he says, softly. "As he breaks, so shall it break."

Dean stops breathing. He turns away, choking.

Fuck. No. _Fuck._

"Did you know?" Sam asks the thick silence. He sounds… mad?

"No," Dean whispers. His voice doesn’t work. Fuck, he’s gonna hurl.

"But you did." Sam is obviously talking to Cas, and he’s working up a good head of steam. "Why wouldn't you tell us?!"

Cas is silent for a long time and Dean thinks he feels a trickle of apology. But no, Dean wouldn't have wanted to know, at least, not now, not yet. Maybe not ever.

"What would it have even mattered, Sammy?" Dean asks, looking up. His brother and Cas blur in front of him. He swipes at his face. "It’s done. Or are you just so desperate for someone else to blame for everything that you're grasping at straws?"

"It, it..." Sam looks like he wants to tear his hair out, like he wants to punch something. Which Dean gets—or he would, if he weren't so fucking tired of all of it: of all the secrets, of the realms of things that he doesn't know.

Maybe there are some things that Dean would’ve been happier never learning.

"It's my fault," Dean says. Because it's true. Even if he didn't know for a fact, he... maybe, some part of him _did_ know. Cas straightens like he's been cattle prodded, but Dean shakes his head. "What fucking difference does it make?"

"Of course it does," Cas says, softly. "Dean, I know you. We fought our way out of Hell together, and even with you gravely wounded, you did not stop fighting. Even as angels fell, even as your blood and mine spilled and I faltered... you did not stop fighting."

They both turn to look at him.

"You think they broke you, Dean.” Cas says that like a weapon, like a challenge, but it’s a challenge Dean doesn’t know how to answer. “The angels thought so, too. They thought you would be… pliant. But your actions then were not those of a man broken. Even fresh-crawled out of forty years of the worst things Hell can devise, your goal was to find your brother and stop the world from burning.” 

He shakes his head, slowly, very deliberately, and looks back at them. “That was when I realized that angels don't understand what 'broken' means. And if they will sacrifice things that are 'broken' for the greater good... they are sacrificing those things that burn most brightly." He looks at Sam, and from the way Sam glances away, looking at the blaze of Cas’s eyes right now is like looking into the sun. "And _that_ is why I chose to fall."

"What was the point?" Dean asks. Cas fell for the love and beauty of humanity. Cool. But he's also a soldier, Dean's seen that. And Cas's fall might have been basically the ultimate protest against his winged dick overlords, but the way it went, it was also, essentially, meaningless. 

Cas gives him an offended look. 

Okay, it’s a shitty question. Dean rephrases. "Not… I get it. I get that. But, Cas, man, it’s not like you to just turn your back on the whole thing, and you didn’t just become human, you became, like, a human baby. An actual baby, thirty years ago. How would that have even helped?” Dean frowns and leans back in his chair. “You didn't even have your memories until you met me."

Cas doesn’t quite turn pink, but the expression on his face is almost a blush: Dean can tell, because he's got that sort of radar for Cas now.

"Ah." Cas rubs the back of his neck. "That wasn't actually what I intended."

"What did you intend?" Sam asks. He's still tense, but the fury seems to be down to a slow boil. Dean’s still not sure if Sam’s mad at him, at the angels, at Cas, or at all of it.

"To help." Cas shrugs. "In the small ways that I could. As a human, I knew I wouldn't have any of my grace, but I would have been able to tell you what I knew, inform you of Heaven's tactics... that kind of thing."

"So…" Sam draws it out and Cas might get the hint if he weren't still looking at Dean. Sam huffs. "What happened?"

Cas takes a few steps closer to Dean, where he's sitting at the table. Below everyone's eye-line, he presses their calves together briefly. Dean nods slightly in thanks.

"I was already injured, and putting Dean's body back together took a lot of work," Cas explains. "When I was done I was, well, as exhausted as an angel can get. I had been planning to wait a brief period of time before cutting my grace out; it's not an easy process even under the best of circumstances."

Dean shifts his leg and presses back, trying to sooth the near physical ache at the idea of Cas cutting into himself.

"I had been, perhaps, too strident in my complaints about the things that had gone wrong. I hadn't realized how closely I was being watched. I… was caught," Cas says, slowly. "On this realm, on earth? We use angel blades. We fight physically; our true forms would obliterate much around us, humans and physical structures alike. But in Heaven? It's… more. We are more, and the power can be… immense. I took a huge hit of energy when I was nearly done removing my grace—the equivalent of a supernova, I suppose. I had to sublimate it somehow, and, well…" both shoulders move in a tiny shrug.

Dean blinks and then blinks again. "Wait. Cas. Did you _accidentally_ time travel?"

This time, Cas _actually_ blushes. Like, pink for real. Holy shit, Dean did not know he could turn that color outside of sex.

"It was... not my intention," he mumbles, low in his throat. "And when I did, I was... unmoored." He nods to the papers. "According to these, I was meant to take Jimmy as my vessel. Instead, I coexisted with him. Was born with him, a human, but... not. In these pages, I didn't exist, not in the way I currently am. I was never meant to."

He looks at them, between them. "I think that's why the narrative in these stories is… different. In these, I am a soldier of Heaven, a... a tool. Sympathetic to your cause, but ultimately, misguided. As I was for so long."

Sam nods, slowly. It's like he's heard something like this before, and Dean's a little afraid to think of where. "And now?"

"I think that, as I am now, I was never part of God's plan." His jaw firms, and his glance at Sam is determined. "I think that we are making our own story."

That's a little alarming to Dean. Dean gets being upset at deadbeat dad issues, but being upset when the deadbeat dad finally does _something_ is even worse.. The questions of whether God is watching or not, aware or not, or angry or not, are ones Dean can't even begin to think too hard about. What he does say is, "Don't get me wrong, Cas, I'm glad you're here, but that gives me the heebie-jeebies."

Cas gives him a sideways smirk. "You don't want free will?"

"I'm not really in the mood to piss off God,” Dean retorts. ”Hey, what about that middle ground? " he lifts his hand up, palm flat, and wiggles it. "I'd sleep much better at night if I didn’t have to worry if there's a godly smiting in my future."

Cas laughs softly, and rubs a hand over his face. "God hasn't been hands-on in far longer than any angel wants to admit. It's far more likely he set up this game of mousetrap and left us to it."

Dean and Sam both stare and exchange a glance. Is he talking about the board game? He might actually be talking about the board game.

Sam finally coughs and looks away, reaching for the next pile of papers on the unread stack. There’s a lot; they've mostly been skimming, looking for specific events. "That's, uh… not actually comforting."

Cas tips his head to the side in that look that Dean sort of loves. "Really?" He shakes his head. "I suppose I’m just accustomed to it. I've never met our Father. None of us have, except for the archangels."

Dean blinks. "Wait, never?" There's deadbeat dads and then there's... that.

"No," Cas confirms. "Before I fell, they told me everything that we were doing was according to His plan. Maybe some of it was—at some point. But now?" he gives both of them a rueful look. "Let me put it this way. Would any benevolent being in their right mind leave _Zachariah_ in charge?"

Dean winces. "Good point," he sighs. "Though, I dunno, man, the jury's still out on ‘benevolent.’"

"Dean!" Sam hisses.

Dean looks at him. "What?"

Sam pointedly twists his chin to look at Cas.

Dean looks at Cas, too. Cas looks fine, if a bit bemused. “What?” he asks.

"Sam," Cas says, kindly, and with a little twinkle of amusement. "I may be an angel, but a very poor example of one. Also, I taught grad students at a liberal college. It will be very hard to mortally offend me with talk of doubt in God." He looks at Dean and then back to Sam. "In fact, I think the ability of human beings to balance faith and doubt is one of their more amazing qualities."

The conversation peters out after that, and they start to make a list of changes that they catch, for reference later. Once Sam looks sufficiently occupied, Cas slides the pages with Lilith back towards Dean without even a glance in his direction. Dean runs a quick knuckle down the outside of Cas’s closest thigh in thanks.

Dean gets to work.

There's got to be a way to off Lilith and stop the breaking of the seals in all of this pulpy wannabe writer bullshit, but by the time he's into chapter umpteen, Dean's eyes are starting to burn from how tired he is. Chuck came wandering down a few hours ago, but it was only to grab another bottle of whiskey.

(He offered them some. Sam took a glass. Dean didn't. Sam gave him a weird look for that.)

Sam sits back with a groan, and rubs the ball of his thumb across his eyes. "I'm beat. I can't read any more about flannel and shotgun shells and portents."

Normally that's Dean's line, and it brings a tired smirk to his lips. "Sunshine Motel off the highway?"

Sam chews on his lower lip. "Someone should stay here." He lowers his voice. "I don't trust Chuck not to bolt, and if anyone gets a hold of him..."

It makes sense. Cas thinks that prophets are protected by archangels, and maybe they were, once upon a time. But with how things are going, these days, Heaven's plan seems all kind of jacked up. Dean nods.

"What about you?" Sam turns to Cas.

"For now, I should rest, as well," he says. But his eyes flick to Dean's. Dean doesn't even think it's a lie, and that worries him a little

At the Sunshine Motel, Dean gets the regular double. He's not sure how long they're gonna be in town for, and as much as he longs for the freedom of a king sized bed, it just seems like less work to bow to the inevitable. 

One less lie.

Dean feels exhausted and hollowed-out. Hell is too close to the surface, and the knowledge that Sam is going to ask more pointed and specific questions about it at some point in the future weighs him down further. Cas, who drove there with Dean rather than pop over, comes up behind Dean as he's fiddling with the key in his hand. It doesn't want to straighten out and catch in the lock, and Dean's other hand is holding his bag.

He's about three seconds from screaming in frustration when Cas rests a careful hand between Dean's shoulder blades and, suddenly, it's like he can breathe again. Cas wraps Dean up from behind into the kind of hug you usually only get after you've been away for weeks or even months.

It's a good hug. Cas has one arm around his waist, petting a hip, and the other across Dean's shoulders—pulling him in tight, tucking Dean into the curve of Cas's body. Cas’s chin hooks over Dean’s shoulder like it was made to fit in that spot.

"I'm sorry," Cas says, and that's a jolt, right there. But while Dean's blinking—what the fuck is Cas apologizing for?—Cas takes the key in his hand and slots it in. It still takes a bit of jiggling to get the door open. Damned motel door, but at least no-one's gonna be sneaking in without waking Dean up.

He showers with water as hot as the shitty little under-sink heater can get it, because nothing feels all that clean right now, and comes out in boxers and a t-shirt. Cas is sitting on the foot of one of the beds. He's still wearing his suit, though he's taken off the trench coat, and it's draped over his arm.

For some reason, that coaxes a tiny little smile to Dean's face. Jesus Christ, that suit really isn't flattering on him _at all_ , is it?

But Cas’s back is a little bowed, and his shoulders are slumped. Sometimes it feels like it's always Cas reaching out to touch Dean, comfort him. Why can't it be the other way around, sometimes? Carefully, Dean reaches out and rests his palm on the tiny strip of skin showing at the back of Cas's neck.

Cas sighs and tilts back into Dean's touch. Like maybe he gets the same soft comfort that Dean gets, whenever Cas touches him—that awareness, that connection, that knowledge that this might all be so fucked up, but at least he's not alone.

When Cas turns to look at him, Dean knows Cas gets it. 

Dean sits down next to him, the mattress creaking, and Cas leans into his side, the trench coat squishing between them.

"Were you serious? 'Bout needing to rest,” Dean asks, quiet, worried. He hasn't forgotten what Cas said about his batteries.

Cas tilts his head in a little yes-no bobble. "I'm alright," he says.

Dean frowns.

Cas sighs, looking down at the hands folded in his lap. “I am,” he insists, quietly. “But… my grace is getting… fairly low. I don’t think I have many flights left in me. Not ones that I can take safely without worrying about ending up trapped in the aether, or in a volcanic crater.” He tries for a smile. “Or in Narnia.”

Dean doesn’t smile back. Shit. That’s sort of heartbreaking. Dean’s not even sure why; maybe it’s because he can feel a little of Cas’s sorrow—the awareness that flying is the one thing about being an angel that Cas actually loves.

“Cas,” he says, softly, and trails off. ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t seem enough. Isn’t that like someone telling Dean he can never get behind Baby’s wheel again?

Cas shakes his head. “I’m alright,” he repeats, a little more firmly. He looks up, then, meeting Dean’s eyes, and there’s something unfathomably tired in it. It’s not a physical exhaustion—okay maybe a little physical—but it’s mostly a soul-weariness that makes Dean ache in sympathy. "But I would like to hold you, if you don't mind."

Dean knows that in the not-so-distant past, that sort of request would have at least made him uncomfortable, but now? Now it sounds pretty damn good. "Yeah," Dean agrees quietly. "I think we can manage that."

Cas shuffles his shoes off and then scoots back on the bed. Dean climbs in after him, too weary to even feel an ounce of shame about crawling on his hands and knees after Cas. Cas is leaving it up to Dean, letting him decide exactly how he wants to sleep. Dean flashes to that night in the fancy hotel, Cas curved around him with a hand stroking down Dean’s body, soothing all of his aches. It sounds nice, but Dean thinks he needs to see the person holding him tonight.

So he takes a page out of Cas's book. He curls up onto his side, chin resting on the nearest pec muscle. It's comfortable: Cas's body is at the right height to pillow him without shoving his neck into a weird angle. Cas's left arm comes up around Dean's shoulders, reaching across the expanses of his back until the tips of his fingers just brush the edge of Dean's left shoulder. Left hand to Dean’s left side, with a gentle press at the handprint before it relaxes down into a casual hold.

Dean sighs into Cas's chest. "You really think we're gonna do this, huh," he mumbles. “We’re gonna beat ‘em. We’re gonna stop it all.”

"I really do," Cas answers, softly, into his hair.

"'Cause you have to," Dean says, flatly. "'Cause there has to be meaning in the bullshit."

Cas, to his surprise, smiles into the curve of his forehead. "No." His lips brush Dean's hairline. "Because of all the outcomes in all the worlds, I think this one—us—was so unlikely. If we can happen, I don't see why stopping the apocalypse should be impossible."

Dean laughs—because Cas is a sap, but damn if that faith doesn't sound amazing. "That easy, huh?"

Cas grins, and just like that, Dean's soul is lighter, and Hell's grip on him loosens its sticky, wet fingers. "Easy as pie. And I know you like pie."

Dean laughs again, turning his nose into Cas's breastbone and rubbing his cheek gently into the bit of chest under his face. There's no intent in it: he's too exhausted even for the beast that seems to be the sexual tension that lives between him and Cas to rear its head. This is comfort at its most base and it's not something Dean’s used to having, let alone taking advantage of.

Cas gently lifts Dean's hand, the one resting casually on his belly and just under his ribcage, and weaves their fingers together. He brings their combined hands up to his lips and kisses them, affectionately.

"We've changed prophecy, Dean," Cas says, in a whisper that's laced with something that sounds awfully close to awe. "We changed the Word. That's not supposed to be possible."

That idea, the very concept that they've defied the Word of God, both energizes and exhausts Dean at the same time. Except that Cas might just be worth all of that. 

Cas lets him go, briefly, something happening that involves a little bit of wiggling just out of Dean's line of sight, and then he's being covered by something warm and familiar-smelling. Rather than pulling up the blanket, Cas has wrapped them in his trench coat. It's his second favorite thing to do with that trench, apparently.

Dean doesn't mind. He just hooks a knee between Cas's and hauls him just a little bit closer.

Dean doesn't remember falling asleep, but he sleeps so deeply that even the trill of his ringtone doesn't jar him awake: it eases him up into awareness with only a slightly-annoyed "Guh?"

Cas hands the phone to him before he's even all the way awake. As Dean takes it, he beholds the cutest damned sight in the whole universe: a rumpled-up, sleepy-looking young professor in a bad suit, a little layer of scruff on the arc of his jaw.

So Dean might have a smile on his face when he barks, "Yeah, what?" into the phone.

"Uh, uh, hi, uh, Dean?" an unfamiliar voice stammers into the crackly connection.

Dean sits up and rubs his eyes. Or he tries. Cas pulls him back down against his chest. "Yeah, that's me," he says, without quite as much bite. "Who's this?"

"It's Chuck." And now Dean's wide awake. "Uh, do you know where your brother is? He told me he'd shoot me if I left the house without him, and I really need to get some more whiskey."

Dean plasters his thumb over the receiver and thunks his head down on Cas's chest. "I'm gonna kill him," he whispers.

Chuck does not seem comforted by Dean's anger. Well, that makes two of them.

"Do not leave your house," Dean instructs Chuck and then he hangs up, handing the phone back to Cas. He takes one last deep breath and then pushes himself upright. This time Cas lets him go. Dean takes a moment they don’t really have to appreciate the wrinkled angel in bed with him. "What was the name of the damn hotel Lilith was supposed to be at?"

Dean throws on his clothes, snarling the whole way through about stubborn brothers and their idiotic ideas about revenge and being strong. Dean knows he's kind of a hypocrite right now, but fucking Christ, what the hell was Sammy thinking?

The Toreador (R-ED are the only letters that are actually working) Motel is exactly the kind of dump that Dean and Sam normally stay at. Dean knows just where to find his brother—corner pocket room, right off what passes as a fire escape in a place like this.

Dean grits his teeth as he climbs out of the car, feeling the familiar cool weight of the angel blade against his back. "You don't think he—he wouldn't, he wouldn't—"

Cas squeezes his other hand—hard enough to ache, hard enough to brighten down the weight of panic in Dean's chest. "Prophecy is flawed, Dean. I think even Sam understands this now." But Cas is just as urgent as he is as they charge in, Dean flashing a fake badge at the manager without breaking stride.

(In a place like this, they're not gonna fight with that.)

When they burst through the door, it's so fucked up that Dean's _relieved_ to find his little brother curled up on the floor, the scalp wound filling his eyes with blood, and one arm tucked to his chest in a way that looks dislocated or broken. But Sam’s alive, and not balls deep in a demon: both wins in Dean’s book.

But the girl standing over Sam has honey hair and terrible, cold eyes too big for her face. She’d be pretty, but the eyes aren’t just dead, they’re _polluted_. When she turns, her whole head moves all the way around before her body does. Holy _shit_.

"Dean..." Sam chokes. "Dean, run."

Lilith smiles. And that's even worse.

Dean knows death coming for him when he sees it, he knows damnation, and that doesn't mean he's gonna run from it. He takes one step forward—

Lilith's smile fades as she looks over Dean's shoulder. "Who are you?" she asks.

The lights crackle, and the glow that fills the room behind Dean is cold and bright and otherworldly. "I'm Castiel. I'm a seraph. I'm an Angel of the Lord," Cas says, grimly—and spreads his wings, shadows of fathers crawling up the wall. "And I'm here to end you, Firstborn."

Jesus Christ, Jesus fucking Christ, Dean's never going to get over the sight of that. Sammy gives him a panicked look, though, hauled out over his shoulder. Wait. Didn't Cas say—

Lilith laughs. "Little angel, pretty little angel, haven't you heard?" She shakes her head, pityingly. "That's not the plan anymore! Go along, run along now, and tell your bosses I say 'hi...'"

If there was ever any doubt that Heaven's not on their side: here it is.

Cas's smile is unfamiliar to Dean—cold, and cruel. He's shining so brightly, impossibly brightly, as he raises a hand and a spot of supernova appears in his palm. "You can tell them yourself. In the Empty."

The smirk fades off Lilith's face like someone grabbed it and pulled it off, like taffy. A second later, demon pours screaming out of the mouth of that poor dental hygienist she's riding.

Cas's light fades—slowly, slowly. He slumps against the wall, gasping little gulps of breath. Dean shakes to go to him. But Sam...

"Castiel," Sam groans, pushing himself back to his side, wincing all the while. Dean runs to help him. "Cas, what the heck, man. I thought you said you couldn't kill her..."

"I’m quite sure I can’t," Cas answers, weakly. "Not at my best, and especially not as I currently am. But I was betting on her not knowing that.”

Both Dean and Sam stare at the angel leaning against the wall like he’s fucking insane.

Cas cracks open one eye. “I grew up with a brother. I know how to play chicken," he informs them, grouchily.

Okay, they’re going to have to have a talk about doing insane, reckless things that can get them all killed. And Dean’s gonna ignore the glass house he’s standing inside with a rock in hand.

Dean goes to Sam, and it almost physically hurts to walk away from Cas without even a hand on his shoulder first. But they need to get going. He doesn't even give Sam a warning before slamming his shoulder back into place. Sam bites back a scream and goes very white, but he nods in thanks anyway. He's dabbing at the head wound himself and Dean can finally turn his attention back to Cas.

Cas still looks woozy and wobbly, and he’s still leaning heavily against the nearest wall like it’s all that’s holding him up.

"Hey," Dean gets closer to him. "You okay?"

Cas nods. "The appropriate display of force needed to convince her stretched my limitations, but I didn't actually use much power. That was more... skill difficulty than battery consumption." He says it like he believes it, even though his face is more grey than pink right now.

Dean breaths out in relief. He still reaches out, though: he aims for a friendly shoulder pat, two firm squeezes, and then he lets go again. It's a little more like a shoulder hold, so his thumb can rub against Cas's skin just over his collar, but Dean thinks it probably didn't look too weird.

Cas brightens almost immediately, some of the color coming back to his face, and Dean gets that hot-cold feeling again, like that time after Cas transported all of them and the Impala with almost no warning.

They really should talk about that soon. If only Heaven and Hell would give it a rest long enough to let them. Dean sighs and turns to the dead body that had housed Lilith, still on the floor.

"Whaddya think?" he asks the room at large. "Burn her, or dump her someplace where she’ll be found, so her family can have closure?"

"Burn her," Cas says, though not without quiet sympathy. "Closure is important, but that would honor her."

Sam bobs a nod, pressing a hand to his shoulder to keep it stable until they can get a sling around it. "If she has ID, maybe we can leave her clothes and stuff near where she comes from, or something."

It's not enough—it'll never be enough—but it's something. Dean nods, and starts shifting the body into his arms.

Cas licks his lips and looks at his hand, thoughtfully, and looks over at Sam. "I can... I think I can still... "

Sam's gaze is sorry, and a little dazed with pain. "No, Cas, you don't have to do that. I was... stupid."

Dean snorts. Now that the fear is draining, the anger is sharp and alive in him, twisting and hot in his gut. "What the fuck were you thinking, Sam?" he growls, and hauls the dead weight over his shoulder. This is why they always take the rooms near the fire escape.

"You really were stupid," Cas agrees, without blinking. "But you still need both arms. I think I can use enough power to heal it without wasting any on the forehead. But it may hurt."

Cas steps closer to Sam, who reluctantly lets him into his personal space. Cas’s hand glows and then shakes with effort, the brightness flickery like a bulb with old wiring. It goes on for long seconds before Cas gasps and steps back. He’s trembling again.

Sam slowly moves his arm: there's a wince, but he seems to have full range of motion. Cas goes to finish the job, but Sam stops him before Dean can. "I'm good."

Sam helps Dean with the body after that and they get her down to the car with only mild trouble. Dean can feel Cas behind them, clutching at the stair railing a little too hard. Dean clenches his jaw and gets on with it.

When all is said and done and they all smell faintly of dirt, oil and burning bodies, they trudge back to Chuck's place. Dean growls at him to call them with any Lilith information he finds out.

Chuck stares at them, wide-eyed but bleary. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this," he announces. It's half accusatory, half awe.

"Yeah, well," Cas says, tiredly, from his place holding up the wall again. "We're making it up as we go along." He might look like cute roadkill right now, but Dean can feel his pride from across the room.

Chuck looks distinctly startled, but then he just shrugs. "Oh, yeah, that’s great. I'm sure that won't cause me any migraines at _all._ "

Cas pops away for a day or two after that, and Dean’s not gonna lie, the whole conversation about accidentally appearing in the middle of a volcano kind of haunts him. But when Cas comes back, he rides in the back of the Impala with them for a few days afterwards. He’s definitely running low: he spends most of that time looking tired, and more like a grumpy tax accountant than he's ever looked. Once, Dean even catches him napping, his head leaned back against the window, long curve of his neck bare.

Dean's worried. He can't even pretend he's not. But at least Sam's bullshit about being suspicious about Cas has taken a turn in the right direction.

"Is he okay?" Sam asks, softly, as they're cruising down the highway towards what sounds like a nest of vampires. Dean really hopes it's a small one.

Dean's jaw clenches. He wants to say "Yeah, he's fine, just got to buff and wax his halo," but with Cas looking small in the back seat, for once, he doesn't want to bullshit. "I don't know, Sam," he answers, quietly.

"He seems better when he's with us, though." Sam licks his lips. "Like, I dunno, he's recovering faster."

That's true, too. Or at least Dean hopes it's true. 

Because he's not sure what he's gonna do if it isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tia:** Miraculously, we made it through a chapter without them having sex on a surface of the Impala. Will this last? Only time will tell. Hope you lovely readers are looking forward to the next chapter, because we had such fun with it!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Tia:** This was one of those chapters that we were both excited to write even from the planning stage, and gosh, it was fun! Here's hoping it answers at least some of the questions some of you might have, and that you enjoy it half as much as we did!
> 
>   
>  [Also, we have gorgeous art!](https://jeanne-de-valois.tumblr.com/post/640328938591223808/commission-for-tia-illustration-for-the-fic) Go show them some love too!

Cas starts to leave less and less, and every time he comes back he seems a little bit more worn-down. But the one thing he always zaps off for is to powow with other friendly angels... probably to make sure that they don’t get led back to Dean and Sam if they turn out to not be that friendly.

Tonight’s one of the nights that Cas is off conferring with his super secret inside man/double agent, and Dean is sleeping fitfully. They haven't had a lot of time together since Chuck. On top of that, Sam is starting to get twitchy in a way that makes Dean worry. He hasn’t forgotten what Cas said about Sam and demon blood, but Dean would also swear that Sam hasn’t been juicing. Especially after their fight outside the motel.

The dream is nice, though. There's a lake and a dock. Dean feels relaxed, and with each slow lap of water against the shore, he gets more relaxed. There's a fishing pole in his hand and an empty chair next to him. Dean knows with the kind of certainty he's just getting used to that Cas is off, just out of frame. He’s probably in that small cabin up the hill. He'll be down soon. There’s a second fishing pole by Dean’s foot, already baited and ready for him.

The sound of wings startles Dean because he didn't feel the pressure change first. There's no nearby weapon in this dream. This dream isn't about that. This is a _dream_ , dammit.

"Dean Winchester?" It's a woman's voice.

"Yeah?" Dean turns his head to find a slim redhead standing behind his shoulder. She's not even the type he used to dream about. Not nearly buxom or naked enough. Hell, she’s wearing a suit. Dean really didn’t have much of a thing for suits, until, well...

"My name is Anna," she says, and then holds out a folded piece of paper. "Castiel needs you to go here."

Anna. Redhead. Boring suit. Angel. Wait. Wait just a goddamned—

What the _fuck_.

Dean almost topples out of his chair. "It's _you!_ "

She blinks at him.

"You, you're, you..." and Dean has no fucking idea where he's going to go with that. Because 'you're the angel God said I was supposed to fuck, and what I got was so much better, so I'm really glad I didn't' is going to go right in pretty much no universe, ever. "You're, uh, an angel. Right?"

The look she's slanting at him makes it pretty clear she's wondering if he's wrong in the head. "Yes." She pokes the paper at him.

Dean takes it, then frowns. "Cas sent you? Shit. Is he in trouble?"

"Don't worry about Castiel," she says, with that same horrible, emotionless calm. Dean really doesn’t like angels. "He's weak. But I'll take care of him."

Dean's last dream thought after taking a look at the damn paper—it’s an address in Pontiac, Illinois—is that Dean put a ring on it, and she better fucking watch her pretty little hands.

Once awake, Dean shakes Sam awake and demands they get on the road at once. Sam grumbles and drops shit all over the place as they pack in a hurry, and then immediately falls back asleep once in the car. 

Dean tries not to dwell on the fact that Sam’s so tired all the time, now. He twitches and shakes in his sleep, these days, curled into a ball too small for his gigantic size.

It occurs to Dean that this is probably not a trap, because Cas would have had to tell Anna how to reach him and he’s pretty sure Cas wouldn’t accidentally let that slip, even under torture. But he doesn't actually know what he's walking in on, either. So when they pull up to a generic-looking house on an ordinary-looking block of Midwest suburbia, Dean has no idea what's going to happen after he knocks on the door.

Coming face-to-face with an angry-looking Jimmy was not on Dean's list of potential possibilities.

"What are you doing here?" Jimmy asks, stonily. He straightens his cuffs, one at a time. His plain, light blue button-down actually fits, Dean notices. "I didn't call you."

No, he didn't. He'd told them to forget his number. Considering that Dean just had told him that his twin brother was dead in a war between angels and demons, Dean can't even blame him for that.

"Cas?" Sam asks, bewildered, peeking over Dean's shoulder.

Dean winces. Terrible, terrible fucking timing, Sammy.

Jimmy rocks backwards like he's been punched, his head snapping back and jaw going tight. It doesn't make him look any more like Cas, and Dean still doesn't know how Sam can't tell them apart.

"My brother's dead, thanks to you. So thank you for that reminder. Go with God," Jimmy sneers, and he makes it sound like an insult as he goes to swing the door closed.

(Which, well, to them it kind of is.)

Dean sticks his foot out—he knows better than to use his hand—to keep the door from slamming in his face. "Wait! Wait, seriously. It's, uh... it's..."

There's also no good way to say 'your dead brother's maybe girlfriend except no, fuck, no came to me in a dream, and told me to come here.' Hell, he hasn’t even really explained it to Sam other than to say “Cas got a message to me and we gotta go.”

But there was something else on the bottom of the paper. Some numbers, a name—

Dean snaps his fingers. "Timothy 5:8?" he says, hopefully. "He said 'Timothy 5:8.'"

Jimmy stares at him, and mouths emptily to himself for long enough that the door sags the rest of the way open. But then, silently, he opens the door and lets them in.

It's very obviously dinner time. A woman with hair that swoops over her forehead and a young blonde girl look up with them from a dining table, through an open entryway. The whole house smells delicious. Sort of the way Dean always imagined a house might smell at night if a happy family lived in it.

"Amelia," Jimmy calls out. "I'm going to talk to these boys in my study. Start without me."

The woman, Amelia, nods and starts scooping out food from the dishes in the center of the table. Dean's stomach rumbles and he frowns at it. For once, he's not in the mood for that kind of game.

Jimmy is not impressed with their story, especially because Dean avoids the topic of Cas completely—well as much as he can. If Cas sent them here instead of coming himself, there’s probably a reason. Maybe it was because he's not ready to see his brother yet.

"Look, man. We just want to help," Dean finishes. Out of the corners of his eyes, he can already see Sam scanning for entry and exit points that need warding.

Jimmy stares at him. "Help." He doesn't look delighted at the prospect. "You come here... you come here, to my home, you expose my family, _again_ , to this kind of... of..."

Dean can't blame him for being pissed-off, because honestly? If he were in Jimmy’s shoes, Dean’s not sure he’d believe in good intentions, either, if a Winchester walked in and said ‘An angel told me in a dream to come and help you out.’ Especially since Jimmy’s last encounter with angels was when Uriel, all smiles, talked about offing him because he was conveniently there. (Yeah, Uriel’s a real charmer.) 

"Look, I'm a big brother, too," Dean says, as gently as he can. "I get it. But you gotta let us help take care of your family."

Jimmy looks like he just might hit him. His eyes flare, and it still doesn't look like Cas—too shaky, too scared, not Cas's boundless certainty and quiet little hint of humor even when he thought he was gonna die. "You get it? You think you _get it?_ My brother is _dead_ , and you say you—"

"I went to Hell to save mine," Dean answers, and Jimmy stops dead. Sam flinches. Dean doesn't. "So, yeah. I do. But this isn't about me, it's about you guys being Cas's family, so we're gonna be helping you whether or not you're willing, buddy."

The doorbell rings before Jimmy has time to answer. The voices out in the hallways aren't familiar to Dean, but Jimmy frowns. "Sorry," he says, gruff, but it's not an apology for what he said earlier. "That's my next door neighbor."

Jimmy heads out to find out what's going on and Dean follows behind discreetly. Sam rolls his eyes. The conversation seems mundane enough that Dean's mind starts to wander, planning the best places to hide the devil's traps and what arguments might work best to convince the Novak family that the family that tattoos together lives to see another day together.

It's the loud, shocked intake of air that brings Dean's attention right back to where it should be. The neighbor guy is right inside Jimmy's space and there's aggression all over his stance. Jimmy stutters briefly, but he’s got one arm out and clawing for something on the entryway table that looks like a clay rock with a little handprint in it. He swings, the thing in his hand exploding in a cloud of pieces and clay dust, and yells, “Dean!”

Dean is already moving and once he's in the room, he can practically taste the sulfur in the air. Dammit.

Dean gets between the neighbor and Cas’s brother, fists up, and Amelia’s screaming. He can hear Jimmy yell to his wife, "That's not Roger!" like it’s far away, but that’s not where Dean’s attention is anymore. He swings just as whatever is possessing Roger stands back up. 

Not-Roger goes down hard. The angel blade ring on Dean’s finger is coming in very handy, again. 

Dean falls into violence the way skydivers pour through the sky: controlled freefall, familiar, white-noise and the thump of his fists. Amelia cringes back against the wall. Sam's got the kid and is hauling ass with her out of the room. Honestly, Dean's grateful. He just wishes the wife would go with them.

It's fear in her eyes, not panic: she doesn’t know. Dean doesn't know whether to be thankful or pity her.

Jimmy, holding an actual candlestick now, meets Dean's eyes. Shit, Dean doesn't want to kill the guy's neighbor—there's nothing about him that makes Dean think he's meat. He holds the fist with its gleaming silver ring up, ready to punch again if the demon wearing Roger tries to get back up.

He's not prepared for Amelia to screech, and when Dean whips sideways, a middle-aged suburbanite woman tackles Dean at waist-level, knocking him to the floor.

Amelia screams again, and Jesus Christ Dean really wishes that she would just stop doing that—

But a voice that Dean knows, doesn't know, starts... _chanting._

"Exorcizamus te—” Jimmy starts, with perfect fucking pronunciation and without so much as _stumbling_ on the syllables, “Omnis immundus spiritus—omnis satanica potestas—" and both the demon on the floor and the one sprawled across Dean's hip start making that awful, familiar, choking noise, like they're gagging on hellfire.

Whoa. Well hell. Who'd've thunk. Go Jimmy.

So Dean definitely doesn't expect the familiar Latin of the exorcism to cut off in a wet, all-too-familiar choke of pain. And when he shoves the shivering demon off him, he sees...

What he's seeing doesn't make any sense.

Because it's _Amelia_ standing beside Jimmy, shoving a knife into his gut.

For a moment, just a brief moment, it's Cas Dean sees on the floor, bleeding out and helpless. Dean never had trouble telling the twins apart but right then and there, Jimmy is close enough for his mind to panic just a little. Dean manages to clock the demon trying to pin him down, and just as Dean’s heading towards Amelia, Sam's reassuring voice picks up the chant where Jimmy's left off.

"Aw. Can't get it up anymore, can you, Sam?" one of the demons taunts and Dean did notice that Sam wasn't doing his usual magic trick. But whatever, he's doing something that doesn't require killing anyone, so great.

It's Dean's job to keep the bastards down and away from Sam while he finishes. It's easier with the ring, easier still as Sam gets through more and more of the exorcism and the demons’ hold on their meat suits weaken.

Finally they all screech out, sounding like someone's brake lines are haunted and four bodies hit the floor. Dean runs to Jimmy, sliding to his knees. The bitch chose to stab him someplace that would take a long time. Goddammit. That’s good. That’s good, right? They’ve got time, they’ve got—

Amelia is stirring beside them, but honestly, Dean can't be bothered to check if she's okay. Jimmy's bleeding out in front of him, looking down at the thick wet mess of his neat button-down like he can't believe it.

"It hurts," he says. He sounds faintly surprised.

But Dean knows it's not the bleeding that gets you, in these situations. It's the damage to the organs; it's the spillage, the contamination inside the belly. But that doesn't keep him from opening up the shirt, grabbing a wad of cloth and having Jimmy hold pressure, because it makes them all feel like they're doing something. "Hey, hey,” Dean says. “You'll be okay."

Jimmy looks into his face. He mutters, "You're a terrible liar."

Sam looks sick and helpless. "I'm calling 911."

The air changes and Dean's head snaps up. There's the sound of wingbeats a half second later. He doesn’t have to look to know who’s behind him.

"Let me," Cas says, gently, coming to kneel next to Dean. Jimmy's eyes get big and wet and round, whites showing at all corners. "I'm here, James. I'm here. I’m so sorry. They were following me, I couldn’t… Jimmy, I’m here."

Jimmy looks frightened out of his wits, even more so than before, and that was just with the trauma of a stomach wound. But he doesn’t say anything. Just stares.

Dean watches Cas reach out, hand glowing already, and he can feel the effort Cas has to put into it to even get the process started. Even before he touches Jimmy, Cas falters, the light flickering. Dean puts a hand on the nearest knee in support—out of instinct more than anything. The light strengthens and Cas resumes healing with a vengeance. 

He’s white through the lips and trembling with the effort and Dean knows he's just about out of juice, even with Dean's help, when he finally stops.

Cas slumps forward and Dean catches him with a “Whoa!” 

“I’m fine,” Cas gasps. “I’m…” but yeah, Dean’s not having any of that bullshit. He’s seen better color on corpses. Jimmy isn't fully healed, but through his open shirt Dean can see that all he’s got left is a little gash that he or Sam can easily sew up themselves. Nothing’s bubbling up through it anymore.

Jimmy is still staring at them, openmouthed—Cas lying in Dean's arms because he's having a hard time holding himself upright. Sam helps Amelia up and starts taking her to the other room, her eyes and cheeks wet. She can’t take her eyes off Cas. She's mouthing 'a miracle, a miracle.' 

Well, in this case, she's right.

Jimmy sits up, then presses a hand to the shallow cut, wincing. It's still oozing a bit, but there's nothing there that looks... wet and pink in a way that it shouldn't. "Cassie," he breathes. He looks scared. He looks hopeful. Dean gets that, too. “Castiel.”

Cas shivers against Dean, but he opens his eyes. "Will it make you feel any better," he says, his dark gravel even rustier, "If I said 'be not afraid, only believe?'"

Jimmy's mouth goes tight and shaky. He squeezes out, "No, it really won't, because I’m the religious Christian nut; you hate the King James version, and you’re much more likely to quote Gurumayi Chidvilasananda just to annoy me. And if these guys are your James and John, I'm _really_ worried." But he sounds like every word hurts, like he’s on the verge of tears.

That's almost scarier than the gut wound.

But Cas smiles, very gently. “That’s true, you’re right,” he agrees, “So. ‘The important thing is not to think much, but to love much; and so, do that which best stirs you to love.’”

Dean has no idea what the fuck that means. Jimmy, though, Jimmy clearly does. 

"You're alive," Jimmy says and the first tear trickles down the side of his nose. His lip quivers, just slightly and then he's moving, faster than he should for someone with that kind of open wound. "Praise God in Heaven, you're _alive._ " His arms wrap around Cas and Dean carefully hands him off, sticking close enough to keep Cas upright, his hand hovering over the small of his back just in case Jimmy loses his grip.

Yeah, Dean’s not gonna be the one to point out to Jimmy that God probably has nothing to do with it.

Cas nods into his brother's shoulder and holds him tight. Dean's having trouble holding onto his own emotions. There's a sharp tickle in his throat and a prickle in his eyes. He knows this reunion all-too-well—hell, he’s lived it—and doesn't begrudge them this time. 

But they need to get moving soon. Where there’s four demons, there’s just as likely to be a dozen.

He hears Sam’s gargantuan feet come stomping back. He hands Dean their big first aid kit over his shoulder. Dean looks back to thank his brother, but the look on his face tells him there's something else to worry about. 

Dean isn't about to stand up, though: Cas or Jimmy are all tangled up in each other and mumbling in something that doesn’t sound like anything Dean understands, but they both look like they might keel over at any moment. Sam kneels down and starts to help Dean unpack the kit, instead. Then he leans in and whispers, "Amelia and Claire are missing."

Dean closes his eyes, exhausted. Next to him, Dean can feel Cas tense. He heard. Well, good: all that leaves is Jimmy. Dean thinks they should wait till he's sewed up and painkillered out, but they don’t have that time

Shit. He doesn't want to send Sam out there on his own. But Jimmy's useless and still unwarded and bleeding onto the floor, and Cas looks like he couldn't smite a puppy right now. If someone came for Jimmy once, they're gonna do it again.

Dean flicks his chin at his brother in an obvious demand of 'Go, git, go now.' But Sam, being the good hunter that he is, is already moving, nodding. He touches the demon blade at his hip, raising his eyebrows.

Dean shakes his head, and touches the line of his own angel blade. And with that, Sam's out the door.

They never need any words for times like this.

"Told you you'd be okay," Dean says, gruffly. "But you gotta get off the floor, and we got to patch you up."

Cas moves to help, but Dean cuts him off with a noise in the back of his throat. They’re all three gonna end up in a pile on the floor if Cas goes down while ‘helping.’ Dean gets Cas to the nearby sofa, installs him in a corner and tells him to stay there. He goes back and eases Jimmy up, supporting his injured side gingerly. He brings him to the sofa, too, and then helps him lay down so that his head winds up in Cas's lap. The way Jimmy's eyes won't leave Cas's face tells Dean that was the right decision.

He gathers the first aid supplies and turns the coffee table into a stitching staging area. They've recently restocked and Dean decides that Jimmy is worth the lidocaine. Sam and Dean tend to save it for emergencies, or times when there's the luxury of painkillers and rest. Usually they opt for a different kind of liquid pain relief.

Dean numbs, cleans and sews the wound up. It's about a dozen stitches, more or less, and Dean works hard to keep them even and regular. Jimmy doesn't deserve a ragged, ugly scar; he wouldn't appreciate it the way Dean might.

Cas spends the whole time talking, explaining. Apologizing. "I was trying to keep you safe. Keep all of you safe. They were always following me, and I thought, if I stayed away..." 

Jimmy murmurs understanding noises and Dean thinks he's a better man than Dean is. That, or he'll get mad once the drugs and adrenaline wear off.

The cut was a stab, not a slash; most of the damage was on the inside, and he's pretty sure Cas has a handle on that. Dean tapes it up with gauze, and there's no staining on it when he's done. The twins have sort of gone back to talking in half-sentences and words that Dean isn't sure are English, but, well. They're twins. Even if one of them is an angel and Dean's... well, whatever Cas is to Dean.

"Has he ever had the strong stuff?" Dean asks, quietly.

Cas shakes his head, then tips it. "Wait. Yes, but it made him throw up when he had his appendix out."

Jimmy shudders. "Don't need it. I'm okay. Amelia? Where's..."

Shit, Dean was afraid of that. He pushes Jimmy back down onto the sofa. "Look, buddy, you've had a hell of an afternoon." Sam raided the medicine cabinet, and there's ibuprofen and tylenol. He pushes some of each into Jimmy's hands. "Take this, and rest."

Jimmy's eyes focus on Dean again. He and Cas don't look alike, but that flash of angry, protective blue, right there—that's familiar. "Where's my wife? My daughter?"

"My brother went after them. He's taking care of them," Dean half-lies. Or it might not be a lie. Fuck, he really hopes it's not a lie. "They, uh, they bolted. They got scared."

That's probably too close to the truth. Jimmy's face crumples. He sags back into the sofa. "Why is this... why is this happening?"

Cas bows over his brother, his hand on Jimmy's forehead. "I'm sorry," he says, and the grit and rasp of his voice makes Dean want to go over there and wrap them both up. "I'm so sorry. But we'll fetch them back. Right now. You rest."

Dean's ready to argue—again with the angel who can't smite a puppy and might not even be able to walk under his own power. But the look on Cas's face stops that argument.

So Dean does what he can, which is to offer Cas a hand up. They leave Jimmy on the couch with a bottle of water and some more painkillers. And a Bible that he asks for. (Jesus Christ.)  
Once out of sight, Dean checks his phone, hoping Sam has given him a heads up about where to go. Nothing. “Shit,” he sighs, and starts stomping towards the door. 

Before he can get too far, Cas takes him by the arms, pins him to the wall and kisses the stuffing out of him.

Dean sucks in a shocked breath and then sort of melts into it, letting Cas lick into his mouth and tongue fuck him for all he’s worth. Just when Dean is sure his knees are going to rubberize, Cas ups the ante and does something he's practically avoided doing since the first time. 

He places his hand fully onto the print on Dean's shoulder. And presses.

Dean's eyes roll back and he shudders so hard he feels it in his toes. Holy fuck, holy _fuck_ , what the hell is he…? But Dean doesn’t even have the brain to finish that sentence, not when his whole body is blazing with connection and he thinks his feet left the floor.

When Cas pulls back, his lips are pink and wet, his eyes are sparkling, and, most importantly, probably, he’s holding pretty much Dean's entire weight up against the wall like it's nothing.

Dean’s feet _did_ leave the floor.

Uh. Well, okay then. Color Dean impressed. And aroused.

Dean whispers, "Damn," and that gets him back the biggest smile he's seen out of Cas in a good long while. Then he blinks. "Wait. Did you just..."

"You are an excellent battery charger, Dean," Cas tells him, perfectly seriously.

He puts Dean down and strides off down the hallway before Dean can think of an appropriate response to that. Okay, they're definitely gonna have to fucking talk about what just happened.

Dean hears Jimmy yelp from the other room and then Cas explains that he's just warded him from angels, at least. Ah. The rib carvings. They should form a gang when all this is done. Dean gives Jimmy an anti-possession amulet for good measure and hastily draws a few devil traps in the most useful places.

There's no message from Sam by the time they get into Baby—Sam, it looks like, took the Novak car from the driveway; thank God. Dean struggles to remember just how to turn on the GPS tracker on Sam's phone with the laptop, but after a tense few minutes, he gets it.

Cas has his hand resting on the back of Dean's, silent, the whole way there.

But the scene when they screech up to the sight of a little sedan on a side road is even more fucked up than Dean thought.

Sam is on the ground, on his hands and knees. No he's on a _demon_ , hunched over its neck. Like a bloodsucker. God, if he pops up with teeth Dean's done. That's it. Someone else can save the world. 

Dean doesn't even move. He can’t. He can see what’s happening, can see Sam drinking in long pulls, shuddering. He doesn’t want to believe it, but he also… 

He knew. Some part of him knew.

It feels like hours later, but it's probably only seconds. Sam's head pops up. There's blood dripping from all around his mouth: it goes from his nose, down past his chin and halfway up his cheek. 

The blood is revolting, but the look on Sam’s face, dark-eyed, smiling, radiant, is worse. He sighs, and straightens like he’s unfolding from a cocoon. He licks his lips.

He _likes_ how he feels with that shit in his system.

Dean’s cold, frozen, sick. He might throw up.

When Sam finally turns his back to the Impala, it's like the emergency brake got taken off Dean’s body. He can move again. They throw themselves out of the car, but by the time they get to Sam, he’s already yanking the black thing out of Amelia's body. There are other meat suits lying in piles on the floor, more abused than Amelia—probably been dead for days, maybe longer.

The silence in Dean’s head is thick and staggering; not even the scream of the demon as it dies punctures the strobe lights that are going through Dean's mind. 

Cas told him—Cas warned him. But Dean didn't want to believe it of Sammy. Ruby is one thing. She's bad company, a bad decision.

This?

This, Dean doesn't even know what to call this.

Amelia staggers towards Cas, pulling a shaking little blue-eyed girl behind her and heading towards him like she can't tell the difference between the twins either. She topples into his arms, shaking, sobbing.

But she doesn't try to kiss him or anything, and Dean remembers: Cas is her brother-in-law. He was there when she married his twin; he was probably there when her kid was born. She's babbling something about demons, about being afraid, trapped inside her own body. Cas holds her in and, very carefully, strokes her hair, murmuring something in his low gravel.

The little girl gives Dean a serious look. "Can we go home?" she asks, her voice high and thin, but steady.

God, she looks like Cas. It’s not the color or the face. There’s something about the eyes, though, or maybe the way she holds herself.

"Yeah, kiddo," Dean says, thickly. "Yeah.

Dean's not watching as Sam wipes blood off his face. He's not watching as his brother straightens. He doesn't look up as Sam says, "I'll take them if you and Cas take the other cars."

"I don't want to ride with him," the kid says, looking solemnly up at Dean. "He scares me."

Right now, he scares Dean, too.

Cas resolves the problem by telling Sam to drive the car he took (Jimmy's). Dean will take Baby, and Cas plans to take Amelia and Claire back in Amelia's car (taken when the demon had her). For some reason, it never occurred to Dean that Cas could drive. But he's been a human for several decades, of course he can drive.

They caravan it back, no one wanting to let anyone too far out of their sight. Dean fights the panic that's clawing at his chest. Fuck. Sammy. 

He knew about the demon powers thing, but he didn’t ask why. He’d let it go because things seemed to be getting better, and because of fucking Lilith, he hadn't asked too many questions.

Hadn’t asked any questions, if Dean’s gonna be honest, or at least, none of the right ones. 

Even Cas seemed to be a little torn about it but… fuck. Did he know? Could he have known? _Fuck_.

Dean’s got Bobby on the phone before they even make it back to the Novak house. Doesn’t take much discussion to get a plan in place.

Lilith be damned, he's not letting his brother become… that. Not again. Not ever.

Amelia and Claire practically jump out of the car when they hit the driveway. They scurry into the house to find Jimmy. Dean doesn't blame them.

Sam gets out of his car looking both scared and defiant; he’s cleaned his face off at some point between there and the house. Dean just nods at him like it's okay. Because what else is there? Sam heads in without giving Dean more than a second look. Maybe he’s afraid of what he’ll see there. Dean knows the feeling.

Cas finds Dean standing next to the Impala, elbows resting on her roof, head bent between them. They don't do anything more than lean against each other briefly, but even that little bit helps.

When Dean comes in, he finds Sam drawing protection sigils on the windowsills with a Sharpie. They don't look at each other.

Amelia and Jimmy are huddled together on the couch with Claire wedged between them. Claire's already sleeping the curled-up, limp-limbed sleep of someone too scared to stay awake any longer. When Amelia looks up, her face is drawn and tight.

"I didn't... I didn't even get your name," she says.

It's such a weirdly normal thing to say that Dean blinks. It takes a lot of the thrumming layer of panic out from behind his breastbone. "I'm, uh, I'm Dean. That's my brother, Sam." He jerks a thumb in the direction of the living room. "We hunt demons."

Amelia Novak doesn't ask if they're sure. If demons are real. Dean knows she'll never ask it again.

She chews on her lip and says, "Does... so Castiel, he didn't... you're... Cassie, you’re alive?"

Cas, from just over Dean's shoulder, says, gently, "Yes. Well... it's complicated. But I'm alright."

"I'm sorry we didn't offer you dinner, Dean," she says, and that one leaves Dean’s mouth hanging open a little. Jesus, to have the concerns of a suburban wife of an ad executive or whatever Jimmy is. She starts to get back to her feet. "There's food in the fridge, I should—"

Cas steps past Dean—because Dean really doesn't know how to handle normal people—and gently presses her back into the sofa with both hands. "Sit down, Amelia." His smile quirks a little. "You don't need to feed us. I know where the microwave is."

Jimmy makes a sudden lunging movement—so jerky that Dean's hand automatically slaps to his Colt. Cas starts a little, but just a little.

"What are you doing?" Cas asks Jimmy, mildly. Jimmy seems to be holding Cas's hand up into the air by his wrist.

Cas's left hand.

Oh.

Jimmy stares at it, and then stares at his twin. Dean’s pretty sure they’ve never looked more different.

Cas blushes loud and pink for maybe the second time ever, and Dean suddenly feels unaccountably shy.

Jimmy squints. "Is this like a bride of Christ thing?"

Everyone stares. Then Dean starts to laugh so hard he bends at the waist to keep from falling over. There might be tears in his eyes. Oh God, who's the bride in this scenario? And who's Christ? Well, Cas _did_ rise from the dead…

Yeah, Dean might be just a little hysterical 

"Oh God," he gasps. "Sorry. Sorry. That's just… not the question I was expecting."

Cas looks deeply amused. He's reached over and started patting Dean's back, gently, in what could only be a vaguely sarcastic manner. "No, Jimmy. Nothing like that."

Dean hasn't laughed that hard in ages, and man, it feels good. It feels like a win. Right here, even with all the fucked-up stuff that happened in the last few hours... they're safe, they're all safe. The bastards didn't get any of them—even the poor sap who's staring at Dean like he's lost his mind.

Jimmy doesn't look amused. Or comforted. Actually, he does look a little bit more like Cas when he's all... pinched up like that. "Well, when last you left here, you weren't wearing a _wedding band_ , Cassie, so excuse me for noticing!" He pales. "Wait. It's not some kind of... tracking signal on you, or something? You can take it off? It's not—"

Cas's expression is gentle. He doesn't take his other hand off Dean's shoulder when Dean straightens, still snickering a little. "No. It's not magical or supernatural." He nods at Jimmy's own hand, where a thick wedding band rests. "Or at least any more magical than any other symbol of devotion and commitment, I suppose."

All of a sudden Dean's throat goes tight. Cas's hand is heavy and warm on his shoulder.

Because... yeah. That's exactly what it is. And... he can feel Cas's eyes on the side of his face, asking—so quietly—if Dean's okay with this.

And just the fact that Cas feels the need to ask makes him feel a little small, and a little ashamed.

Dean swallows and nods shallowly. He takes a half step to his side, thoroughly invading Cas's personal space. "Ah. I—" His voice cracks. Ah, fuck. "That is…"

Cas takes some sort of pity on him because that warm gentle hand on his shoulder slides down until it has Dean’s left hand. When he takes it, it tangles their fingers together. Dean prefers it the other way—he likes their rings to clink—but that's not really the point of this little demonstration.

Jimmy stares at them. Then he stares harder. Then just a little harder. "What?" He finally says, turning to look at Dean. "You're too good for a ring?"

Dean lifts his right hand defensively.

"His is made from a reforged angel blade," Cas explains, all calm-like. "It seemed more fitting for him to wear glorified brass knuckles on his dominant hand."

"I knew it!" Dean points. "It's a ring first, my ass. You were just sneakily arming me!"

"It has a dual purpose," Cas says, and it would look totally serene if not for the amused glitter that's tucking the very corners of his eyes. "It's convenient that way."

Amelia is looking back and forth between them, looking bewildered. "Wait. Are you saying you two are... you're married? Oh my. Castiel, you didn't... was there a wedding?"

He and Cas exchange a look. Cas wrinkles his nose. Yeah, Dean kind of feels that way about fancy wedding shit, too.

Jimmy, a bit to Dean's confusion, doesn't look at all shocked. Sure, he's let go of Cas's hand, and he's sitting back against the sofa with his arms crossed. (Also, he's still glaring at Dean.) "Hm," he says.

"You don't look surprised," Dean says. But he doesn't let go of Cas's hand.

"My little brother has been dreaming about you since we hit _puberty,_ Dean Winchester. I'm sort of surprised he didn't jump you in the back seat of that big car of yours the moment me and Sam got out." His eyes narrow. "But you… you didn’t know him. So what’s your excuse for the shotgun wedding?"

Dean thinks that’s a pretty fucking insulting insinuation for Jimmy to make about Cas all around, and he’s about to say so. But from the doorway behind Dean, there's a loud, blank, "Wait. Wait, _what?!_ "

Dean winces and there's a moment, just a moment, where he considers yanking his hand back from where it’s tangled with Cas’s. 

But no. He's not ashamed, not exactly, just... uncomfortable. This thing with Cas is difficult for him because of how it's not like all those one night stands and whatever little affairs he had where he didn’t just hit it and quit it. Even Cassie Robinson didn’t compare. What he and Cas have is weird and complicated, but it’s also nothing Dean ever thought he'd have. Or want.

"Uh. Hey, Sammy," Dean croaks.

Sam works his way into the room like he’s casing the joint, all suspicion. He stops behind the couch, behind Jimmy, where he can get just as clear a look at Dean and Cas as Jimmy has. Amelia gets up, looking between the four of them, then coaxes Claire into her arms and out of the room. Smart lady. Dean relaxes a little now that little ears are gone.

"Are you kidding me?" Sam asks. "After all the crap—" He bares his teeth and gestures at them with a wide swing of one arm. "After all the crap you gave me about Ruby? And secrets?"

"If you compare Cas to that demon bitch again, we're gonna have a real problem," Dean hisses. Cas squeezes their joined hands and Dean takes a deep breath and tries to consciously calm down. Now is not the time for this argument. "It's not the same."

"Because he's an angel?" Sam snaps. His nose is flaring in that way he gets just before running off and doing something to prove how grown-up or independent he is.

"Because I love him!" Dean bites out and then almost staggers with the weight of his own confession.

Oh. Shit. What? What was that?

Sam gapes at that. Well, everyone does, a little. Except Cas.

Cas, well, Cas is glowing. Not literally glowing—though who knows, if they turned out the lights. But he’s twisted all the way towards Dean, his eyes are shining and wide, and his pink lips are parted like he did not expect Dean to say that.

He looks so, so happy.

Wait, Dean's said it to him before, right? Or something like that? He's got to have, goddammit. Right?

"Dean," Sam stutters out. "You're not _gay!_!"

Well... yeah, that's true, he's not. Also not a fucking conversation Dean ever wanted to have or thought he was gonna have with his little brother, though.

Cas straightens beside him, and the joy that was written all over his face gets taped up and packed away as carefully as gift wrapping. "I might expect to hear that sentiment from one of my students here in the Midwest, but I'd have thought someone who spent time at Stanford would understand that sexuality is a range, rather than a binary. And might know something about people coming out in their own time," Cas says, coolly, his shoulders back like Sam doesn't tower over him.

Sam flushes. "That's not—I don’t mean—"

This time, it's Dean's turn to squeeze Cas's hand. "Not the conversation we're really havin' right now, Cas," he points out. Though... seeing Cas go all commanding professor and watching Sam just sort of fold? Huh.

Jimmy, though, is full-on scowling, now. "So you're telling me you two met six months ago, are married now, and neither of you thought to tell _either_ of your brothers."

Okay, when he puts it that way it does sound pretty bad.

Cas arcs both of his eyebrows, completely fucking unperturbed. "Six months and thirty-odd years, if we're actually counting." He shrugs with just his shoulders. “‘We stayed a day or part of a day. Ask of those who keep account.’”

“Cassie, now you’re just being annoying,” Jimmy mutters. “Quran?”

Dean wonders if this thing they have really did manage to transcend time. It would explain some of the things he's experienced in life. The fact is, Dean enjoyed sex with women; it wasn’t like he did it ‘cause he was running away from something, though he always sort of figured it would make him happiest. And, for the most part, it did. With guys, though, it was more obvious that something was different, and maybe Dean always knew that. The few times he gave in and fooled around weren't bad, but they just left him feeling, well, hollow in weird ways. 

At the time, Dean assumed it was the hellhound nipping at his heels.

Now though. Now everything shifts into slightly better focus.

Sam is still staring at Dean like he's never seen him before. Dean knows it's not actually about Cas's junk, but that little something deeper and much more fundamental about their relationship. Dean can’t exactly blame Sam: Dean’s got Cas’s _ring_ on his finger.

"We needed time, Sammy," Dean says, and his voice doesn't crack. "I needed time."

Sam still looks like he got hit in the face by a two-by-four (it's disturbing that this has happened often enough that Dean knows exactly what it looks like) but at least he doesn't look like he's going to run off for a pint of demon blood or something stupid again. He nods, just once, very stiffly, and stalks off.

Well. That's promising. Hell.

"I would like you to be happy for us," Cas says to Jimmy, with the same quiet serenity. "Though if you can't, I understand. The circumstances are... strange, even for me."

Jimmy, unlike Sam, softens a little bit. He's still glaring at Dean, though. "He put you in harm's way, Cassie. He's still putting you in harm's way."

Dean can't deny that in many ways, that's probably true. The knowledge ducks hard in his gut. He doesn't argue.

"Yes and no," Cas answers. "Those circumstances are not of Dean's making any more than my strangeness as a child were of yours."

"You're still strange," Jimmy grumbles.

Dean's about to prickle at that, but Cas smiles, sweetly. "Exactly," he announces, and it sounds like the kind of thing brothers say to each other, not just a weird and tense stand-off.

Jimmy drops his head abruptly. "Your room is still there. I haven't done anything with it yet."

"Jimmy?" Cas asks and there's something there, something small and fragile. Cas's hand is squeezing Dean's just this side of too hard. "James," Cas says again, a little stronger. "If I could help it, I would never hurt you. Ever. But there are greater stakes involved than you could ever guess and Dean— he—" Cas breaks off briefly, giving Dean a look that's so full of affection and adoration it's difficult to meet. "He's what I was looking for."

"He's going to get you killed." Jimmy says in a low voice. He's shaking. It's been a long day for him and Dean doesn't begrudge the man his worries. Dean thinks it, too; has thought it before. "Again."

"If I die," Cas releases Dean's hand and crouches to be at Jimmy's eye level, in front of where his twin is still slumped on the couch. "It will be my own decisions that lead me there, not Dean’s. And if, in the end, I have to die to save the lives of the people I love? I will do it gladly and with a smile on my face." He looks back up Dean then and his smile is sadder, but no less genuine. "But if there is any other option, I will take it. There are things in this world I'm not quite ready to give up just yet."

Jimmy looks like he's tired and punchy and pain-drunk. Dean knows that look a little too well, so he reaches for the bottles of over-the-counter painkillers. He's not sure what to say to make any of it right, but this, at least, he can do. He touches Cas's shoulder and rattles the bottles; Cas nods.

When Dean gets back from the kitchen with a glass of water and a handful of pills, the twins aren't talking, just sitting next to each other and looking at each other. But Jimmy takes the painkillers with a muttered "Thanks." His look at Dean makes Dean suspect he's going to be getting some kind of big brother talk in the morning. 

Well, bring it on.

Cas helps Jimmy up out of the sofa, though, lifting him back onto his feet by his armpits, and Jimmy blinks. "Are you... stronger now?"

Cas huffs. "Jimmy, I am an angel. I could pick you up like a princess and carry you without breaking a sweat. I'm only helping you like this for your dignity." He pauses. "Also, I don't sweat anymore."

Dean—because he's not a complete asshole—turns away to hide his smile at Jimmy's expression.

Yeah, Cas and Jimmy will be okay.

Dean's relief at that seems to be the final thing he needs to tip over the edge from hyperalert to fucking tired. His yawn splits his face, and when he's done Cas is right there with a fond look.

Jimmy is just turning down the hallway that starts at the back of the living room. Cas takes Dean's hand and pulls him along to follow.

"Amelia must have shown Sam the guest bedroom," Cas murmurs as they pass a closed door with light leaking around the edges. Jimmy bids them a quiet goodnight as they pass another door, barely propped open.

Cas takes them past all the other doorways to one all the way in the back. "We had an addition put on the house a while back, so I'd have enough room for office space back here. The additional ensuite was Amelia's idea, but she wasn't wrong about it being a good idea."

The room is organized chaos. It's not that there's a lot of clutter on the floor, but that there's a whole wall of shelves full of books and papers, and a desk in the corner with stacks of more. There's stuff on the walls, some framed things of old paper that look super religious, but other artsy stuff that just looks decorative: a little thing made of pieces of colored glass, a few pictures that are almost certainly Claire’s drawings. There's a neat basket of unfolded laundry off to the side, next to a chest of drawers in dark wood. The top drawer is still left partially open. 

There's a thin layer of dust in parts of the room. Like someone's been in here, but only as far as they needed to be before leaving again. It’s been months since Cas left, but Dean knows what it looks like when someone’s grief keeps them from putting away a loved one’s things.

The bed is on the other side, against the wall. There's a dark comforter on it and a pile of fresh sheets and towels draped over the foot. Cas smiles at them and starts sorting. "Amelia," is all he says and Dean remembers all over again that Cas came from a regular family that does regular family things. Like have guests. And extra linens.

Dean's duffel is just inside the doorway, possibly directed there by Amelia also. He grabs the bag and puts it on a nearby chair before helping Cas strip the bed and remake it.

They smile at each other across the mattress, and Dean realizes that it's the first time in his life he's done this: made up someone's bed with them, got ready to share it with them. He was just never around long enough to deal with that kind of thing.

It's... kind of great. He really likes this. Damn.

"Are you hungry?" Cas asks, plumping a pillow between his hands as he shakes it into the pillowcase. It's so domestic that Dean stares. "I forgot to ask. There’s food, I'm sure—there always is. I'm sure Amelia fed Sam, she feeds people when she’s stressed."

Dean could eat—he almost always can—but the tiredness is overriding it. "I'm good. Could use a shower, though."

He licks his lips as a thought occurs to him. Just sort of casually. Hell, Cas has sucked Dean's brains out on the hood of the Impala, so maybe...?

But Dean's still not brave enough to ask for some things, and in response to Cas's curious little head tilt when he hands Dean a towel, he shakes his head. "Nah, uh, I, nothing."

Cas catches his hand on his way past. "The bathroom shares a wall with the master bath in my brother's bedroom. It's a very lovely thought, otherwise."

Dean's face warms and he ducks away, after kissing Cas firmly on the lips. Right. Other people. 

When all of this is said and done, Dean's going to have to consider that living life out of his car and various motel rooms might not be what he wants anymore. Maybe he actually wants the things that come with having a place to call ‘home.’ He thinks about falling asleep with Cas, and then waking up with him in a comfortable bed that doesn’t squeak, in a room that doesn’t smell of someone else’s old cigarette smoke, and it leaves a warm pang in his chest. 

It suddenly doesn't seem so far-fetched, the notion of a home that doesn't have four wheels and a combustion engine.

Dean showers, quickly, but not without some time for the simple enjoyment of clean tile after the first thin layer of dust washes away, good water pressure, and hot water that’s actually hot and not just sort of lukewarm after a long and trying day. He shuffles back out wearing fresh boxers and a soft t-shirt. He's still scrubbing the last of the water out of his hair when he sees Cas.

He's in bed, sitting up with several pillows stuffed behind his back for support. There's a hardcover book in his lap, his fingers running across the lines as he reads. It doesn't just look normal, it looks well-practiced. Like this is how Cas always went to bed.

"Hey," Dean says, then immediately feels stupid, 'cause obviously Cas knew he was coming back.

He can't help it, though. Cas took off his coat and suit and button-down. He's just wearing an old raggedy t-shirt with Northwestern University on it, the collar stretched out and sagging. The cover sheet is pulled over his thighs and lap. His blue eyes look a little sleepy, and his hair is fluffed up a little on one side like he ran his hand through it and forgot to smooth it back down.

He’s so fucking gorgeous.

Dean wonders for a crazy moment what would have happened if they'd just... met. The normal way normal people do. No angels, no apocalypse. No Cas dying in front of him, no demons. Would he have even known to look?

But Cas just smiles and puts his finger into his book. He says "Hello," then shuffles a teeny bit more to the side as if he hadn't already left a big space there for Dean.

It's a little weird, this deliberate bedtime dance. Dean's used to crawling into bed exhausted, often with his pants still on. Or sometimes being thrown onto a bed and climbed on top of, if it's a good weekend at the local bar. But Cas is just sitting there, smiling softly, putting a bookmark into his book and setting it aside, shimmying down while Dean climbs in. He turns onto his side once Dean’s horizontal: two people facing each other in bed, like bookends with nothing between them. It's so normal.

Dean used to have his skin crawl at ‘normal.’ Now, all he wants is to reach out to Cas. 

So Dean does. He runs a hand down Cas's arm and laces their fingers together. "Hi," he says and when on earth he became such a goddamned chaste maiden Dean will never know.

“Hi,” Cas answers, like there’s nothing weird about it at all.

"How're you doing?" Dean asks. He's done the ‘come back to life and freak out his family’ thing. Been on the other end of it, too, come to think.

Cas quirks an eyebrow at him. "How're _you_ doing?" he says, with a little smirk: all-but-daring Dean to object.

Quite frankly, Cas should know better than to dare Dean to do anything.

"Well," Dean begins, slowly, "I think there's a good chance I might have to kill my brother sometime next week. I'm pretty much the poster child for marrying your one night stand in Vegas, except it's like I've known you my whole life, and that's also kind of freaking me out. I've just, this second, realized I kind of have in-laws now, and that's just not something that should ever have happened in my life. And to top it all off, you're dude-shaped, which honestly doesn't bother me like I thought it might? Like, at all? But I'm much more okay with it, because holy shit we are _good_ at sex. But that also means it's something I'm constantly thinking about, in public." 

When Dean's done, he's panting a little.

Cas's eyes have gone slightly wide, but the smile is still pretty fixed on his face, so Dean thinks maybe his tiny little implosion has been taken well.

Then Cas cocks his head a little, running his thumb over the middle of Dean's palm, and asks—innocent as fucking anything— "The sex part? Or the me-being-dude-shaped part?"

The little roil of miniature panic that's whirling in Dean's belly settles down. Dean stares. " _That's_ what you got out of that?"

Cas shakes his head, and chuckles. “Maybe a bit.” If he were the kind of guy who winked, Dean thinks he'd wink. "But if we're talking about in-laws... Sam is a good man who's doing whatever he can to stop the end of the world," Cas continues—like it's obvious to him, an angel who can possibly see souls, and it should be obvious to everyone else. "I know that, and so do you. He's stronger than what's in his veins." He smiles. "I didn't think I'd ever have in-laws, either—for reasons that are very different from yours. But I'm happy with the one I do have."

Shit. Dean didn't know that he needed to hear that. He didn't know that he needed someone else to look at Sam and see that. The flood of hurt and relief are overwhelming, and he ducks his chin to his chest.

Cas leans in and drops a kiss on the tip of Dean's nose. He doesn't move back after he's done. "I know that you told everyone you loved me," he whispers. "And I would have been okay if you never said it, because I... know, I know that. But I didn't think I'd ever hear it."

Okay, now Dean's _bright fucking red_ and he doesn't even know how to respond other than to nuzzle down and catch Cas's lips with his own.

Cas hums softly into it and leans in, his lips already starting to part softly in that way that's turning into one of Dean's favorite things in the world, when Dean pops back.

"Okay, wait, just wait a second," he points out—his voice a little deeper now, "Speaking of. Earlier today, did you seriously tongue-fuck me into a battery recharge?"

Cas gives him an uncomfortable look. "That is a… crude description of it. I realize that I should have asked before I did that, but we'd just patched up my brother, and Amelia and Claire were in danger. If I had my choice I would have done it more like this. Here," he nuzzles at Dean's nose and mouth, lips feathering back and forth. "Slowly. Carefully. Softly."

Dean hums into the next kiss. (Cas probably isn’t getting that Dean had no issue at all about getting tongue-fucked against the wall. That was a hell of a kiss.)

"What I did in the hallway was dangerous,” he continues, and he’s looking all serious again. “Souls and grace can be volatile if not handled properly." Cas cups Dean's cheek. "I’m sorry, Dean. Our connection is something I cherish, and I have no wish to abuse it. Ever."

"Hey, s’okay. Seriously," Dean says roughly, he hauls Cas closer, fits their bodies together. How easily that goes still delights and amazes him. "Just maybe, there's some stuff we should talk about? I need to understand this, okay? I—" Dean swallows. "I'm bad at faith, I'm bad at taking things on faith. With you, I can do it, but it's—tough to believe it.” Or trust it.

Cas looks a little ashamed now, so Dean puts a hand over his hip and just rubs along the little arc of bone, the softness that sits just above it. Cas ducks his head into Dean's neck, and talks, softly, into his collarbone. "My grace is, as you know... faltering. And a human soul is an incredibly powerful thing—yours, I think, more so than most. As much because of what you have lived through as despite it."

Dean blinks. "Are you saying that you, uh..." his mind sparks, grinds, and then gives up. "My... soul?"

"I didn't realize until my grace was running so low," Cas admits. "But whenever I touch you—or you touch me—I... feel it brighten again. All the more so when we're touching intimately." He pulls his head back to look Dean in the eyes from very close, that worried little crease appearing between his eyebrows. "I truly didn't know, the first few times. It took me a while to recognize it. And that's not—it's not why I—"

"Hey, hey," Dean says, and darts a kiss onto his cheek. "I told you. It’s fine. Forgiven." He nods towards his left shoulder. "Is that what... this thing's about?"

"That is related, but not exactly…" Cas trails off. "You were injured. We were injured. Looking back, I'm not sure they wanted me to survive even that long. I think the plan was to kill me, and then continue to ‘rescue’ you, but you… wouldn’t let it happen." Cas runs his hand up Dean's left arm, but stops just shy of the hand print. "You sheltered me from an attack that I was too distracted to see coming. You saved my life, but took an injury, yourself. We clung to each other after that.” He smiles, and it’s pretty obvious it’s a nice, nice memory for him. Huh. “I held your soul inside my being, but you also held my grace in yours. When it was time to set you back into your whole body, it was difficult to separate. You felt like a part of me by then."

Cas runs one dry finger along the edge of the print, and the feeling of connection hums between them. "This was an accident, I think? I was saying goodbye and you reached for me one last time, only you were already inside your own body."

Dean's eyes shut briefly, enjoying the sensation. "But it's your print?"

"In our pure forms," Cas says slowly, like he's just now sorting out his own theories on what happened, "time is a little more fluid. A heartbeat for you can be an eternity for me. I think whatever pure accident sent me back, reached ahead, too. Kept us connected over time and space."

Dean's too simple a guy to process all that. He knows how he feels; it's all really damned confusing if he thinks about it, and so simple if he just lets himself feel it.

Dean chuckles, shakily, eyes still closed as Cas keeps touching along the handprint. Even though it's covered up by Dean's t-shirt, Cas seems to know exactly where the edges are. Cas’s finger skirts along the edge of the palm, dips between the finger marks curved over the bone. God, that's nice.

"I think you—we—remember, in a way that neither of us can control or explain," Cas says, softly. "And when I touch you, here..." he rubs just one fingertip against what Dean thinks is the pointer finger over the ball of his shoulder. The gentle press of contact is nothing to what zings deeper, Dean's whole body shuddering into it even though the sensation isn't physical at all. "Your soul reaches back for me. It knows."

Dean clears his throat. He doesn't try to open his eyes yet. "Anyone ever told you you're a really romantic little bastard?" he says, but his mouth is curved into a hopeless little smile.

"You asked," Cas answers, and the dry tone in his voice makes Dean's lips curve further. "And... no, of course not. There was never anyone before you. Not like this."

See? Again with the romantic little bastard.

Dean's going to ignore that it's a little similar for him. There was never anyone like this for him either. "I just feel like I'm a little old to develop a shoulder fetish," is what he says instead.

"You?" Cas says, his rumble of a voice vibrating perfectly against Dean's ribcage. "Imagine it from my perspective: I remember the formation of mountains, the first step of vertebrates onto land. I once visited Mars when it still had water. My midlife crisis is far more existential than yours."

"Mars?" Dean can't help but ask, but he still leans in for that spot behind Cas's jaw to kiss.

"It was boring," Cas sighs into it, hooking one leg around Dean's knee. "The bacteria weren't anything to write home about."

Dean laughs and gently bites the skin under his teeth. "You are gonna be great at parties."

Cas pets at the edges of the handprint again, running long, graceful fingers over where the meat of the palm would sit. Dean groans into it: it feels so good. He spreads his fingers out on Cas's ribs, liking the feel of body heat through the soft cotton of his shirt. A slow, sleepy hunger starts to rise inside Dean.

They haven't had a lot of these private, quiet moments, and that's not just because Dean's kept this separate from Sam. Dean wants this moment—sure, all of these moments, but right now, this one is what he wants the most.

Dean noses along Cas's neck, feels that rub of friction along the stubble on his cheeks. He smiles into the warm hollow, right where Cas's collarbones come together in this perfect, graceful arc. When he starts to duck lower, though, follow the curve where the neckline stretches out, he pauses. 

"Hey," he whispers, and feels Cas shiver at breath over damp skin. "This okay?"

Cas nuzzles into his hair and asks, curiously, "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Y'know," Dean murmurs. "Your old life, your old room." He smiles. "Bathroom sharing a wall with another bathroom."

This time, Cas laughs, and the little rumble of it feels like sunlight against Dean’s temple. "Shared bathroom wall, yes... no other shared walls." Dean can hear the smile in his voice when he says, "Do you know how many times I've dreamed of you in this bed?" Cas moves over just enough that his breath is curving over the helix of Dean's ear. His calf tightens through Dean's, thigh, shifting, opening Cas up against him. "You asked me what I would do when I dreamed those dreams. When I woke up from them. Don't you want to know?"

Dean shudders, hands spasming over fabric, his hips juddering forward. He's half-hard and seeking friction. Dean is the master of digging his own goddamned grave, and for once he's really, really okay with that. "Yeah," Dean whispers before pulling Cas in for the dirtiest kiss he can manage while being wildly distracted by thoughts of Cas gasping awake, too desperate and hard to do anything but come.

He doesn’t actually expect Cas to _answer_ him, though.

Cas molds them even closer, whispering soft and filthy into Dean’s ear, his lips and tongue occasionally coming close enough to brush the sensitive shell. "Sometimes I'd wake up with my hand in my boxers, already stroking, so close to coming it happens before I'm even fully awake,” he rumbles, and the small noise Dean lets out at that is sort of pathetic. “Other times, I'd roll over and stick a pillow under me and imagine it was you. Oh, Dean... you have haunted my best dreams."

Fuck. Oh, fuck. Okay. Dean’s sure he’ll have something clever to say to that. Eventually.

Cas sighs, his legs spreading wider, and he starts pulling Dean on top of him and into the cradle of his hips. His hands reach down, slide over Dean's ass on top of his boxers, and the pressure of it rolls their hips together. Cas gasps softly when their erections brush through two thin layers of fabric. Dean rests his forehead into Cas's sternum, trying to catch his breath.

Dean has the hazy thought that at some point, they've really got to try more than just rubbing up against each other. It's really hard to think of when or why, though, when even just doing this is so, so fucking good.

Then the thought's gone as Cas hauls him in, closer, and sucks hard at the join between Dean's neck and his left shoulder. Even without touching the handprint, it's close enough that Dean feels the pull of his mouth _everywhere_.

That's gonna leave a mark. Dean tries to think of the last time he was so excited to get a hickey. He's pretty sure the answer to that is 'never.'

He wants. Fuck, he wants so much. He wants everything. Cas's ear is just as close as his own is to Cas's mouth, their bodies molding together in amazing little rolls. Dean traces the curve of Cas’s earlobe with his lips, and tells him, "Show me?"

Under him, Cas shudders, head tipping back and away from Dean's skin. His hips roll up sharply, taking Dean on a ride of sensation that will never, ever get old.

"There are so many things," Cas says, and his voice is so, so deep, "that I wish to try with you, Dean Winchester. Many of them are not appropriate for when my family and yours are sleeping 20 feet from here."

It should be a dose of cold water, bringing up the other people. But it's not, because Dean imagines the kind of wild, uncontrolled sounds Cas is able to wrench from his mouth and all it does is make him want it more.

Dean smirks down at him and nips at the edge of Cas’s collarbone. “You sure about that?”

(Yeah, Cas is probably right. Yeah, Dean’s being a brat. No, he doesn’t care.)

" _But_ I do have some ideas," Cas says, haughtily, before pressing his knees firmly into Dean's hips and flipping them neatly so that Cas is now straddling Dean, pressing into him in the most perfect way before giving one experimental roll. "Yes. I have ideas."

Dean temporarily forgets how to breathe at the fucking glorious sight of Cas, his Cas, perched on his hips and pulling his own t-shirt off with one yank at the back of his neck. His brain short-circuits at the sight of all that warm, creamy skin. Almost every other time, they've been in half-dark, and besides, they've barely managed to get their shirts and pants open. Sometimes not even that.

So right now, he's gonna look his fill. Cas's nipples are dark brown and a little peaked. His belly is flat and delicate; he has a thin dark line disappearing from under his belly button into his boxers. His boxers are dark green and already as tented as Dean's are, and the thighs spread nearly-bare over Dean's hips are long and surprisingly heavy.

"I like your ideas," Dean mutters, sliding one hand up Cas's side, the other curving from Cas’s knee to groin—just to touch for the sake of touching. "They're, uh, good. Yeah."

Jesus, he just needs to fucking shut up.

Dean sits up, stomach muscles flexing, so that he can run his hands up Cas's back. The flat planes are deceptively soft-skinned, but Dean can feel the muscles under them, flexing along Dean's hands. Cas grinds down on his hips and Dean's brain short-circuits, briefly. 

Then Dean feels Cas start to tug at the bottom of Dean’s shirt and yeah, that's a great idea too. There hasn't been enough of Cas's skin pressed against his for one lifetime.

"You know," Dean says breathlessly once the shirt has disappeared from over his head and Cas has settled back down on top of him. "For what it's worth, I can make you sweat pretty damn well." He licks one glowing patch of skin at the edge of Cas's hairline.

"You," Cas threads his fingers through Dean's hair, thoroughly messing it up, blunt nails scratching at his scalp. "You are my exception." He kisses Dean, tongue sliding past Dean’s lips, licking at the roof of his mouth. "To everything," he adds when he's done. He kisses a tingling trail down Dean's neck to the fingertips marked on his shoulder. He licks one gently and Dean's entire body jolts, right up into Cas. The smile against his skin tells Dean that was planned.

By the time Cas's tongue is brushing against the next fingertip, and the next, and the next, Dean's shuddering under him, his hips jerking in uncoordinated little twists. He collapsed the rest of the way back to the bed long ago, and Cas followed him down. Dean's teeth are clenched together to swallow the soft, needy sounds he's making.

But he's still not prepared for Cas closing his lips over what must be the tip of the thumb, across the soft inner curve of the inside of his bicep, and _sucking_ on it.

The wave of want and connection is so intense that Dean's not sure how _Cas_ isn't feeling it. Maybe he is, because the little moan he lets out against Dean's skin is almost as desperate as the thin, choked whine that escapes Dean. Even through two layers of cloth he can feel the damp of Cas's boxers.

He doesn't remember sneaking a hand under the back of there, but at some point, he did: his hand is cradling the globe of Cas's round ass, oh, fuck.

"Off," Dean complains, tugging on the back of the waistband.

Cas looks up from what he's doing, dazed and pupils blown, hips still shifting a little. "Yes." He nods, just a hair frantically, and Dean feels a sliver of relief that he's not the only one deliciously overwhelmed. "Yes, that is an excellent idea."

They stare at each other for long seconds before they both remember that they have to move. Dean doesn't want to move, but he wants Cas naked more. They slide apart, barely, and take their own boxers off with shaking hands. Dean's, though, don’t even make it all the way off his left leg before Cas is back, straddling him again, rolling warm and firm and oh, yeah, _naked,_ against Dean.

"Oh fuck," Dean hisses. The back and forth rub of their cocks is a little dry, but experience says that'll change quick.

"There's lube... in the drawer," Cas moans, pushing Dean back down so he's flat on the bed then giving him a sinuous, full body roll. Skin slides against skin and it's all warm and soft. Except where it's definitely not.

Dean halfway opens his mouth to note that Cas has got a better angle to reach in there, but then Cas rolls his hips again—this time with this little shimmy or twist or something—and their cocks slide side by side. And Dean does not want him to stop doing that, no, nope.

Dean scrabbles half-blindly behind and to his side, yanking the nightstand drawer open mostly by dumb luck. But when he sticks his hand in and starts feeling around, there's more stuff in there than just lube, and Cas is still curving their bodies together. Dean has to turn his head just enough that he can actually look into there to see what he’s doing.

Dean chokes, and he actually manages to process something other than the sexy goddamned angel rubbing their cocks together.

Yeah, there is a little bottle of clear lube in the corner, and it's definitely nicer, fancier stuff than Dean's ever used. 

There's also a neat little rack of things Dean's _never_ actually seen in real life, just, well, in porn. Because he's pretty sure that's a vibrator, that's a dildo, and over at the end, that curved metal thing? That's a plug.

His reaction must clue Cas in that something broke in Dean's attention, because he stops what he's doing for just a second and looks up to where Dean’s eyes are glued. "Oh," he mumbles, deep. "Um."

Dean's brain short-circuits a little. He remembers Cas spent an entire lifetime as a gay man who spent a lot of time interested in a guy he wasn't sure even existed. Of course he has… things. But it’s not often that the reality of their different sex lives really hits Dean between the eyes. 

"We, uh," Dean starts and then has to clear his throat. "That is. At some point. I think maybe…?"

Cas looks down at Dean, and strokes his face gently, patiently. Waiting.

"Guess I'm not used to being the dramatically less experienced one," Dean finally finishes.

Cas laughs a little. "I know." He reaches over, grabs the lube, and then shuts the drawer. "If it helps, my knowledge is mostly theoretical."

Uh, right, what was in that drawer did not look like a theory. Dean shrugs. "It's not something that needs help, it just is. I'll get used to it."

Cas's smile down at him is so warm and happy that it makes Dean's eyes sting a little. "I don't know that you'll have anything to get used to," Cas murmurs, sitting back on his heels. It drags their skin apart, but only a little bit. "I've learned more about pleasure from you in the past few months than in my whole lifetime before that. We're figuring this out together."

Dean's currently occupied at looking at the damned-near-holy sight that is Cas straddling him _naked_ , cock curved just a little upwards, shiny at the tip, and bobbing right over Dean's. So he probably misses a little of that statement.

The little click as he flicks open the bottle of lube makes Dean shiver again. He sort of expects Cas to squeeze it onto his hand, the way Dean normally does.

(News flash: Cas doesn't do things that Dean expects him to do. Dean really should know this by now.)

The feel of a thin dribble of room-temperature lube being poured over both their cocks would make Dean arch off the bed if his legs weren't already pinned under Cas's weight.

Cas drops the bottle someplace nearby and leans back down to kiss Dean. The first few motions of his hips feel a little strange, until Dean realizes he's literally using his cock to spread the lube. That shouldn't be hot. Dean's hands drag their way down Cas's back again until they find the most perfect ass he has ever felt.

Cas starts them on a soft back-and-forth roll, distracting but not quite so intense that they can't enjoy kissing. It all feels soft-focused and good, not too much, and all Dean wants it to never stop. Cas makes tiny little grunts at the bottom of each roll and his hands bite into the meat of Dean's biceps. There's a tiny lick of Dean's collar bone, then another. Cas seems magnetized to head towards Dean's left shoulder and Dean can't find it in him to be upset about that.

Still, the first accidental brush of fingers from Cas repositioning his hands is just enough to jolt them into something more. Dean's hips push up fast and hard, and he begins to really appreciate the slip-slide of the lube between them.

Dean's been ridden until he's breathless before, but he thinks this, being pinned under Cas's weight and thrusting together in an easy back and forth, their bodies grinding together, naked, might be what it's like being _fucked._

He tries to push upwards a little, get his torso propped up so he can watch Cas moving—but Cas has got him down but good, the strength in his hands unreal and perfectly controlled.

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ that is unbelievably hot.

Cas's thumb strokes back and forth across the center of the palm-print, his mouth leaving small sucking kisses up and down the curve of Dean's neck. Dean thinks about getting a hand between them, give them both something to push into that's not just the slip and slide of their bellies. No sooner has he thought it than Cas groans against his throat. "Yes, please. Do that, please."

Dean's not sure he said anything aloud, but right now, he doesn't actually care. It takes a second to coordinate, since Cas hasn't stopped sucking on his skin, or drawing nonsense patterns on his shoulder. He certainly hasn't stopped thrusting his hips against Dean’s in the way that makes everything feel good. Still, Dean's a go-getter, so he eventually wiggles his right hand between them. Cas arches in a way that is ungodly hot and Dean briefly forgets what he's trying to do.

Briefly. Then the hot, slick feeling of Cas's cock brushes past his knuckles and he gets with the program. He gives Cas’s one pump all by itself, the feeling of it slick and rigid, hot in the palm of his hand. Then Dean flexes his fingers and gets them curved around both of them. It feels pretty awkward at first.

Then Cas moves.

"Oh, fuck," Dean sighs, eyes drifting shut. "Fuck, that's amazing."

It really is—it's all the motion, but a little tighter, a little more restrained—skin and pressure all the way, rather than just slipping and sliding on and off against each other.

Cas shudders, and his mouth just parts against Dean's skin, rather than those tiny, sinful pulls he was giving with it just a second again. "I can, oh. I can feel your ring," he gasps. His hips give a little jerk that snags the tiny rim of what must be their cockheads against each other, held together by Dean's fingers. "Oh. Dean!"

That didn't occur to Dean, but yeah, with his hand cupped this way, Cas might feel his ring. Or maybe it's a whole metaphysical thing, but Dean doesn't have the brains for any of that right now.

It felt really fucking awesome when Cas moved against Dean, so is it gonna be just as good for Cas if Dean does the same? He gives a shaky push upwards with his hips to find out.

Cas groans and bites his shoulder, really, _really_ close to the handprint, oh fuck. So it's safe to say probably, yeah.

Dean gives a second shaky thrust and Cas moans, mouth slipping down to sloppily kiss the bite mark. Yeah, that definitely feels good. Very good. It doesn't take much to find a rhythm that works for them. 

The fact that they managed to actually get their underwear off this time (most of the way off; Dean’s boxers are still around one knee) is something Dean will be proud of later, after the orgasm that's gonna blow his brains out. Dean wants to try all of the things with Cas, even the things he doesn't know how to name. Or want. All of it.

They can't really both thrust at the same time, it turns out, and for just a little bit the shaky intensity of the mood is broken by them both trying, and neither of them getting much of anything out of that. They end up chuckling about it together. But that's good, too—Cas raising his head to wrinkle his nose at Dean, and Dean grinning back, shaking his head. Sex with Cas is so easy that even the mistakes are hot, and funny.

But the intensity and the connection are back as soon as they figure themselves out again, and Dean's got his head back against the pillow, the soft mattress underneath him squeaking gently as they both move. Dean still has his hand gripping Cas's ass, but he can't exactly say he's in control. He's not sure Cas is, either, even though every little lick and touch along the handprint makes Dean's vision flicker white.

It's their rhythm now, and it's goddamned perfect, pulling them both up and up. Dean wants to just keep going and going, but he also can't wait until they fall.

There's no more conscious decisions to make: Cas moves, Dean moves, they move together in all the right ways. His dick aches in his grip. Cas's weight on top of him, the flex of his ass as he moves, every tiny imperfection of his lips that Dean can feel, it's all coming together in one large ball of sensation climbing inevitably up the best damn slope Dean has ever seen.

"Dean," Cas murmurs, right into Dean's shoulder. "Oh, my Dean, you are so perfect." He kisses gently into the center of it, then scrapes his teeth over the whole palmprint.

Dean's vision whites at the edges and he gets one loud "Fu—" out before Cas slaps one hand over his mouth. He's looking down at Dean with dark intense eyes and their hips move to slightly sharper motions. Yeah, that's not gonna last long. Cas collapses forward again, his other hand landing next to Dean's head, crumpling the bedding with effort, using it as leverage to push down into Dean’s hand, sharp and perfect.

Cas is quiet, but not silent, tiny little groans and gasps making their way through his lips, and Dean drinks it all in. He grins shakily behind the hand that Cas has pressed to his mouth; it was probably a warning, but it's a damned good idea. And the way it makes Cas's whole body jerk when Dean swipes his tongue up the blade of the palm pressed over his lips is worth it.

They're going to have to explore _that_ a little later, too, aren't they.

Dean's gonna come, he knows he is, and he feels like he should warn Cas. His hand tightens reflexively around them both, warm and humid and slippery with lube, and that, just by itself, almost topples him. He whines against Cas's hand when he feels inevitability creeping up on him, tensing through his thighs, pulling his pelvis tight.

Cas nods frantically at him, and a bitten back "mmhmm" comes out of his mouth. Their movements get sharper and Cas drops his head again, pressing their foreheads together. "Yes," he whispers. "Like that."

Dean nods, just as frantic.

The pleasure starts as tiny sparks and Dean can feel both their cocks get impossibly harder. Dean's just on the edge, and every moment is taking on that liquid quality that makes going slightly faster and slightly more wild so much easier.

They both balance there on that edge a little too long and not long enough, gasping and sweating and shaking. Maybe it's Dean's hand trembling a little because he's just that close; maybe it's Cas's next thrust being just the tiniest bit out of rhythm.

Dean ultimately has no idea which of them comes first, because whichever one of them it is, he drags the other one down with him so close behind that it really doesn't matter. And the feel of both of their cocks pulsing together in the grip of his hand, the echo of every clench and pull in his pelvis ricocheting into his gut and being answered by a hot jet onto his belly, is just, it's impossibly good. Dean can feel Cas's come slipping right onto the head of his own cock, the mix of their come making the tunnel of his hand even more slippery as neither of them stops moving.

Dean doesn't actually think it's possible to black out from coming so hard, but he's glad for the hand on his mouth, now, muffling whatever loud yowl he makes as his eyes roll up in his head.

Cas collapses on top of him, eventually. They lay there, shivering with aftershocks and sensation until the cooling come starts to get tacky and kind of gross. Cas slides off Dean and off to the side, but barely. If his limbs are anything like Dean's, he's having trouble coordinating them.

"Holy shit," Dean rasps. He doesn't remember screaming, but he sure must have strained something. "I mean it. Holy shit."

"Agreed," Cas pants into his ear. "We do seem to be very good at that."

Dean manages a shaky laugh, and nudges his chin over Cas's shoulder because he really doesn't want to separate. He feels good all throughout, now. Yeah, he's fucking exhausted. It's not like any of their problems are actually gone, and if he closes his eyes for too long it's probably gonna be tomorrow when he opens them again.

But maybe there's something about the recharge that goes both ways, because if someone told Dean he had to sprint a football field and then charge into a vampire nest, he's pretty sure he could pick up his machete and go, laughing all the while.

Cas makes as if he's going to raise a hand and magic them clean again, and Dean flails out for long enough to grab his wrist. "Hey, no," he murmurs, then lifts his head—oh, hey, it moves—just enough to see there's tissues on the nightstand. He grabs a handful and wipes them both off. They'll still be a little sticky, but it's better than nothing. Then he grins. "Though I bet your batteries are good and charged now."

Cas grunts. Or maybe it's a laugh.

Energized feeling aside? Laying in bed next to a pliant and warm Cas, his entire body lax with the kind of relaxation only a really good orgasm can give you, puts Dean to sleep pretty damned fast.

Morning dawns slowly. Cas kisses his temple just as Dean's awake enough to appreciate it. He wonders how much Cas slept. Recharge or not, Dean suspects Cas naps just a little bit now and then, like he does in Baby’s back seat. They haven't moved much from the positions Dean fell asleep in. When Dean finishes opening his eyes, Cas looks at him like he's won the best first prize in all the county fairs.

Dean wants to spend another eternity here in bed with Cas, but he's starting to smell coffee, and his stomach is reminding him that he chose sex and sleep over food last night. He doesn't regret it, but there are consequences for that kind of decision.

Dean showers again, but when he comes out, Cas is still getting ready. Cas is definitely fully angeled up again, and he’s moving like he’s comfortable rather than like he’s got weights on his shoulders for the first time in a long time: he could probably mojo his way back into clothing. 

But instead he slowly puts one piece on at a time while Dean watches. Dean had no idea that he’d like watching that, but fuck yeah, that is awesome. Truthfully, he could just as easily head out before Cas is dressed, but he's not quite ready to go out there and face everyone alone. Cas doesn't call him on it, though.

There's something about watching someone getting dressed, though. Dean never thought that much about it, 'cause, well, before Cas, he was pretty much always the one picking up and going. Or, sometimes, he and whoever were both getting dressed at the same time, neither of them looking at each other, just sort of struggling into clothes. Watching Cas pull on fresh boxers, tuck himself into his slacks, do up his buttons? It looks like what a morning _should_ look like.

So yeah, Dean's a sap, and he stands up from the bed and walks over there to do up Cas's tie. The slippery thing goes through his fingers, back and forth. It's cheap polyester, same as all of Dean's.

"I gotta get you a nicer one," he murmurs, tracing the underside of Cas's jaw before snugging the knot up against his throat.

Cas blinks at him and looks down. "What's wrong with this one?"

"Nothin'. Matches your eyes." Dean presses a kiss to the worried wrinkle between Cas's eyebrows that he's getting to love so much. "Can't I get you a gift?"

Cas covers Dean's hands with his own. "You've already given me a gift."

Dean fidgets with the tie a little more before letting go. "Sap."

It's not until they step out of Cas's room that Dean realizes it's a weekday, and that there's too many voices coming from the kitchen for the late hour—what is it, 9 AM?

"They probably kept Claire home. After yesterday, I’m sure Jimmy took the day off," Cas murmurs as they continue down the hallway.

Dean nods; that makes a certain sort of sense. Jimmy and Amelia obviously care about their kid, and each other. There's only a slight drop in chatter when Cas and Dean make an appearance. Sam is already off in a corner with a mug of coffee, a pissed-off expression, and his laptop.

Amelia asks how Dean likes his eggs and toast and Cas goes to pour two mugs of coffee. One, he sweetens and lightens significantly, the other just a hair, with a splash of half-and-half. That one goes to Dean; he takes it without even looking up from the newspaper he began scanning out of habit.

Jimmy's quiet "Oh" gets his attention, but whatever it was that made Jimmy’s eyes wide seems to have passed. Jimmy shakes his head, and Dean shrugs, going back to reading and sipping his perfect coffee.

Claire is serious-eyed on the other side of the table, watching him and Cas curiously. Cas crouches by her chair with his mug of coffee, balancing with one hand on the edge of the table. They say something to each other in low murmurs; at the end of it, the little girl leans in and hugs him around the neck. 

Dean's throat sticks a little, watching them. It doesn't pass him by that between him, Sam, and Cas, the eternal angel who's unimpressed by bacteria on Mars is the one who grew up with a perfectly normal family.

"You have any kids?" Jimmy asks him, quietly, and Dean almost jumps, looking away from the newspaper.

"No, uh. No. Just, y'know. That giant one over there." He jabs a thumb at Sam, and tries on a grin. "And my Baby, I guess. My ‘67 Impala," he clarifies, just in case Jimmy gets the wrong idea.

Jimmy doesn't smile back.

Okay then, tough crowd. Dean sips more coffee for something to do.

"Where'd you go to school?" Jimmy seems to have dropped the children thing for now. Thank God.

"A lot of places," Dean replies, mildly. He's never been ashamed of his educational history, not really. It's occurred to him that he's sort of hitched himself to a tenured professor with a Ph.D, but Cas never talks down to him or assumes he won't understand. He blows out a long breath, and looks Jimmy straight in the eye. "I'll cut to the chase here. I like long drives down the shoreline and just about anything deep fried if it's done right. I'm an Aquarius. My mom died when I was four and my dad went a little nuts because of it. I've got a GED and the fate of the universe on my shoulders. But I try my dam—” he catches himself, glancing around for little ears, “—darndest not to let my family down. Anything else?"

Jimmy stares at him through another long sip of coffee. "Felonies?" he finally asks.

Jesus Christ, Dean did not miss anything by skipping regular dating for the first 29 years of his life.

Dean swallows, and the coffee goes down thick and sticky. He spends a little while clearing his throat as Jimmy looks at him, stonily, without any of Cas's gentle warmth.

Cas raises his head from the other side of the table and tilts it, curiously. Dean shakes his head and puts down the cup, and the newspaper. "Uh." He lies for a living. He could lie to Cas's twin. Right? And it's not like Cas would give a shit about it. Right?

Crap. No. That's... probably not a good way to go with people he's actually maybe gonna wanna see again someday.

"Yeah," Dean sighs, his voice quiet. He's not ashamed of how he lives, but he knows how this is gonna sound. "Well, sort of. Never been charged for it, but... yeah. Had this FBI guy after us for a bit, too." He looks down at the newspaper. "Good guy, Henricksen."

Jimmy put his mug down with a hard click. Dean almost flinches, but not quite. It's not warmth in Jimmy's voice, but there's surprise there when he says, "I thought for sure you were going to lie about that, if anything."

Dean narrows his eyes. "Thought about it." He shrugs. "That lie is for people I'm never going to see again. Or to let me do the damn job before more people get hurt. You're his family, and you know some of what's out there."

Jimmy raises an eyebrow and somehow still looks nothing like Cas. "So you told the truth so you wouldn't be caught in a lie?" he drawls.

"I told the truth because you're his family. Hell, you’re his big brother. He loves you, and you love him, and I—" he looks at Cas, feels that little shimmy in his heart that makes him smile. Dean's not sure how to finish that. Because he loves Cas? Yeah, of course; Jimmy already knows that. 

But it's more than that. Cas is important, and he's family, now—like Bobby is, like Sam is. And that, by extension, makes Jimmy and company, if not Dean's family, then damn close to it.

In-laws. Hell.

Dean finishes on an awkward shrug. "I'm not proud of it, okay? But that's... it's all part of the family business. Ours." He gestures between himself and Sam. He'd include Cas, but he doesn't think Jimmy would appreciate that.

Jimmy's not impressed by that. Thinking back, Dean's not that impressed by how he said it, either. Dammit, he's not good at this. Give him a sweet-smiled mom to charm any day, not someone's grouchy big brother.

He doesn't think Sam's going to talk through all of breakfast, but he does—not looking up from his laptop. "The law doesn't have any perspective on what we do," Sam says, through a bite of scrambled egg. "They can't, because it's out of the scope of most people's understanding. That's not their fault—but it's not our fault, either. And every law official we've run into who we can make understand, we do. It's why we've never been charged."

Dean doesn't expect how it chokes him up, hearing Sam come to his defense like that—especially since Sam's still so clearly mad. Sam was always much better with the words than he was, and for years, it's been them against... well, everything.

Rescue comes from an even more unlikely source—one who puts toast and eggs in front of Dean, and it smells fantastic. Amelia actually smiles at him. And pats him on the top of his head. Whoa, okay. "Stop, Jimmy, alright?" she says, firmly. "Can't you see Cassie's happy? I've never seen him happy like this, have you?"

Jimmy flinches at that. But her words put a different kind of choke in Dean's throat, shit. He's not gonna be able to talk at all, is he? 'Cause he's never gonna forget the way Cas said, so softly, _"I was very alone."_

"And besides," she adds, in a friendly chirp. "He always did like bad boys in leather jackets."

"Amelia," Cas protests, looking pained.

She turns to Dean. "Do you have a motorcycle? If you had one, that might explain a few things."

Cas gently thumps his head on the table and groans. "That was one time, and it's absolutely not what you thought it was," he grumbles.

Dean butters his toast and makes a mental note to ask about that later. Cas scoots his chair over to sit next to him, their chairs pushed just a hair too close. Dean can feel it when each person in the room clocks it. He tries to be casual and take a bite of eggs, which are as fantastic as they smell. Cas eventually lays one strong hand on Dean's thigh under the table and squeezes carefully. It's a little easier after that.

Dean doesn't say much else, he's too caught up in his delicious eggs and watching this other family, this whole and complete family, just… be. He can't tear his eyes away actually. Amelia kisses Jimmy’s hair before putting plates in front of both of them; pepper on hers, none on Jimmy’s. Claire asks for seconds. 

Sam's cell phone ringing jangles Dean’s nerves more than usual. He checks the time; he knows what that call is. Cas is already standing by the time Sam hangs up.

"That's Bobby," Sam says. "He says to haul a—" his eyes slide to Claire. "To get there ASAP."

Dean nods and chugs the last of his coffee. Cas presses against his arm as they pass each other, getting ready to go.

He feels Sam's gaze on him when he and Cas touch like that, but fuck it. He knows, now, and Dean's not taking his judgment. Especially not since he compared Cas to _Ruby_ , what the fuck.

Anyway, that doesn’t matter right now. It’s showtime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ami:** EEEEEE. Ahem. Yes. More plot, but also gross gross romance and I am here for ALL OF IT. Like Tia said, this chapter had some of the things we were most looking forward to writing. It's also the longest chapter by far. Jeepers, it's a mystery.
> 
> Citations:
> 
> "But if anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for members of his household, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever"  
>  —Timothy 5:8
> 
> "be not afraid, only believe"  
>  —Mark 5:36, King James version
> 
> ‘The important thing is not to think much, but to love much; and so, do that which best stirs you to love.’  
>  —Gurumayi Chidvilasananda
> 
> ‘We stayed a day or part of a day. Ask of those who keep account.’  
>  —Quran 23:113


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Ami:** Okay this wasn't the chapter I most anticipated writing, but it has several small moments that I absolutely enjoyed writing. Also hey, MORE PLOT in between the gross, gross romance.

Before they head out, Cas finishes warding all three Novaks, and Sam walks them through what all the new symbols and drawings on their walls and floors mean. Sam managed to hide it all under carpets and behind curtains and under furniture. He must have been up well before Dean and Cas made their appearance. When that’s all done, Cas hugs Amelia and kisses Claire on both cheeks—which makes her squeak and paw at his face, but Cas's grin is wide and sweet at her, and they're both smiling. Amelia says something into his ear that makes Cas squint, and almost-kind-of-blush.

Cas and Jimmy stare at each other for long enough to make it awkward. Dean's about to grit his teeth and maybe say something stupid when Jimmy says, in a voice that cracks to a thin fragment, "I'm so glad you're alive, Cassie," and hauls his twin towards him.

See, and that? That's why Dean didn't lie to him.

The whole family sees them out the door. Dean's had families they've saved that did that, of course. But this is... different, somehow.

Just like the way that Cas reaches out and catches him by the fingertips as Dean slides into the driver's seat. "I should meet up with Anna," he says, softly. "Angel radio has been... loud, the past few hours, but I can't catch the gist of it clearly."

Then, like it's nothing, he leans into Baby's frame and drops a kiss on Dean's lips. Freedom tastes like the smile that he presses into Dean's. Dean sighs, feeling Sam's unhappy energy in the car door slam that follows.

This is going to be a fun drive, Dean can tell already. Eight hours and change with Sulky McBloodFiend. Great. 

Cas says nothing out loud—not that he needs to. Dean knows: it's in every place Cas touches him, it's in every sincere look he pins Dean with. Dean gently tugs on Cas's ugly tie, the one he is absolutely replacing sometime soon, and initiates his own kiss. For his own benefit. Maybe a little bit for Sam's. 

Is he rubbing it in or making a statement? Dean's not really sure. But either way Sam can't quite hold in his aggrieved sigh.

Cas sends them off with a fond smile and the sound of wingbeats. Sam immediately shoves headphones into his ears, and Dean doesn't hear one word out of him until the first rest stop.

The funny thing is, they've spent so long just not talking about shit that there's something almost comfortable with the painful silence going through the car. Dean turns on the radio and hums along to the Eagles, drumming his thumbs on Baby's familiar, heavy wheel. Sam sulks like a boss. Should've gone to college for _that_. Kid's practically got a degree in it already.

(Okay, so Jimmy's look at Dean when Dean admitted he's just got a GED, compared to Jimmy's Ph.D-having, angel-winged little brother, might've ticked Dean off just a little bit.)

Sam dives out of the car the moment they get to the rest stop like he's either starving or really has to pee, and Dean follows him out. When Sam's out of sight, he leans against Baby and picks up the phone to call Bobby.

"Room's all ready," Bobby says, grimly, without a greeting—as usual. "Dean, you sure you wanna do this?"

Dean thinks of the brightness of Sam's eyes when he had blood running down his chin, the thick smell of it on his clothes when he got into the house. His joy at hauling the demon out of Amelia.

He thinks of _"Sam's a good man, Dean. He's stronger than what's in his veins."_

"Yeah, Bobby," he says, quietly. "Yeah, I do."

The rest of the drive is more of the same. Sam glares off into the distance, sometimes typing on his laptop, sometimes listening to music, but mostly he's quiet. Waiting. Probably for what he expects to be Dean's eventual explosion. 

It's not a bad guess, but it's not what's going to happen this time. Nope.

They get to Bobby's after dark, but with the fact that it’s still balancing on the edge of winter into spring, it’s not actually all that late in the day. Dean stretches after getting out of the car, casually waving to Bobby, who's coming out to greet them. Bobby gives them both a long look before jerking his chin towards the door.

"Come on, I got it all laid out in there." Bobby doesn't even look at them as they step into the house.

Dean blinks a bit at the quality of light in the house. His night vision is damn good, but the transition tonight seems odd. Maybe he just drove too long with that tense atmosphere in the car. Bobby's has always been welcoming, even as weird and cluttered as it is, but today, it just feels ominous. 

Then again, it's not every day Dean’s tricking his brother into detox.

They make it to the panic room, Bobby and Dean carefully staying outside the door.

"All right. So, uh, what's the big demon problem you told me about?" Sam looks at Bobby expectantly, but his eyes go wide and panicked when he sees Bobby's hand on the door.

"You are," Bobby says gravely. The door clangs shut with threatening clang. "This is for your own good."

Dean can hear Sammy yelling "Guys? _Guys_? This isn't funny!" through the door. He leans against the wall beside it and lets his shoulders sag. That's one thing, then. He doesn't feel good about this, but the other options make him want to retch, so... here they are.

Bobby watches them both, him and the door, quiet-eyed. "So," he says, and trails off.

Dean swallows. "So this'll do it, huh?" he asks, quietly.

"Yep, should," Bobby agrees. "With the warding an' all. Should dry 'im out."

But he's giving Dean a funny, squinty look that Dean's not sure he likes.

"What?" Dean asks.

"An' what about you?" Bobby asks. "We need to cut you off, too?"

Dean blinks; he's having trouble concentrating over the screams of his baby brother. The betrayal in Sam’s voice physically pains Dean. "I'm sorry, what?" he asks, blankly.

Bobby leans against the nearest wall, eyes unmoving. Staring. Assessing. "See, funny thing is, a couple hours after I got a call from you about your brother needing to dry out ‘cause he’s juicin’ up on demon bullshit? I got one from Sam, telling me practically the same thing. About you."

Dean knocks his head against the door and closes his eyes. Sam. The paranoid bastard. "What exactly did he tell you?"

Bobby sighs. "That some angel has you on the hook and that you're not acting like yourself. Sam thinks it's something a lot like his deal. That he's feeding you something to make you stronger but more… how’d he put it? ‘Pliable.’ Well," Bobby shrugs, "he didn't make that direct comparison, though, y’know, because he's totally got it under control."

Dean isn't even angry. Okay, no, he's angry. But he's also just tired. Tired of all of this bullshit, and of the one really good thing to happen to him in like… ever… being compared to something outta Hell. Literally. He suddenly aches for Cas in the weirdest of ways. 

Whatever Dean’s planning to say to Bobby—and whatever it is, it’d probably get him called ‘boy’ or ‘you damned idjit’—is interrupted by his phone ringing.

It's... Cas? Dean frowns and answers.

"Are you okay?" Cas says, breathlessly. "What's happening?"

Dean blinks. "Yeah. Yeah, Cas, I'm..." he sighs, and looks up at where Bobby's staring at him. Dean lifts his lip in a sneer in Bobby's direction. Bobby's expression doesn't change. "I'm fine. We're at Bobby's."

"I can't find you." Cas doesn't sound panicked, but he sounds worried. Maybe a little scared. "You felt... upset. Heartsick. And then I couldn't find you..."

Dean blinks. "Can you normally?" He never really thought about it, but that's a good point. He's supposedly got writing all over his ribs that says 'no one here but us chickens' to angels, and Cas has been able to locate him every time.

Then again, he's pretty sure other people don't get a pop in their ears when a certain angel's about to fold his wings and land, either.

"Always, Dean. In Heaven, on Earth, in Hell," Cas says, softly.

Dean knows better than to blush when Bobby's looking at him, but he also can't do anything about the way the back of his neck burns at that. "Huh. I dunno, Cas,” he admits. “Nothing's different. I'm fine. Sam’s…” Sam’s not fine. “Sam’s safe. We're at Bobby's, everything should be secure..."

Then Dean raises his chin into where Bobby's still looking at him steadily, and realizes.

Yeah. Yeah, this is a fucking _intervention_.

Dean stares at Bobby for a long moment. "You know,” he drawls, “Bobby said he was gonna try out some new warding. That's probably what it is." 

(Bobby didn’t say any such thing.)

"Dean," Cas says, slowly. "You're not quite lying, but there's something wrong."

"No, buddy, we’re good." Dean can feel it now, the slight crawling on his skin. An attempt to keep a part of Dean from himself. "Hey, how about you turn up here in an hour or so? I don't think you've ever met Bobby. Since I met Jimmy, I sorta feel like I should return the favor."

Bobby says nothing, though his gaze sharpens. Yeah, Dean's giving them a whole hour to sort this shit out, and that's more than he'd give anyone except maybe Sam. He can make his case, but Bobby's relying on Dean not being willing to leave Sam. 

Bobby's probably right, but the truth is, Dean's just about ready to snap about this whole thing. So who the hell knows?

"An hour," Cas says, flatly.

"Yup," Dean says. "No rush." He's radiating _please trust me_ as loud as he can, and he's almost sure Cas can hear it.

Cas, on the other end of the phone line, sighs. "Please take care, Dean. I will be there in precisely fifty nine minutes and thirty two seconds."

He hangs up, so Dean's left saying, "You nerd," into a blank line.

"That the angel who's been juicin' you up?" Bobby says. There's only a little judgment in his voice. "Weren't you the one sayin' that they were all dicks? That Uriel asswipe guy, and the spineless one. Which one's this one?"

Dean can't even argue with that description of Inias, that's exactly how Dean thought of him, too. Sam's still pounding thinly on the closed door. Dean sighs and jerks his chin in the direction of the stairs. "I need beer for this."

"That's the first normal thing you've said all day, boy," Bobby says, but he starts leading Dean up the stairwell.

Dean makes himself comfortable on the old couch in what might be considered Bobby's study. Bobby hands him an open bottle of Margiekugels. Dean gives him an eyebrow and assumes there's holy water in it, but fine. He chugs a good half of it before putting it down. "Ask," Dean says.

Bobby takes a long pull off his own beer, leaning against his desk. "Are you juicing or not?"

"Not." Dean says firmly. "What Sam was probably talking about is this." Dean holds up his right hand and shows off the gleaming ring. He's noticed it never gets dirty, never scratches, and nothing ever seems to stick to it—not grease, not even soap. "It's made from a reforged angel blade. You know, the things that can kill most angels and demons? Apparently it doesn't need to be all stabby stabby to pack a punch."

Bobby leans in and peers. "Okay. I'll grant that it definitely has that look about it. So what? You got gifted with some fancy brass knuckles, why the secrecy?"

Dean clears his throat. He then tips back his head and pours the rest of the beer down it. When he lowers the bottle, Bobby's giving him a look that might, on someone else, even be worried. "It's, uh..." he worries at the ring, and thinks of the soft clink of Cas's against it before he heaves out a long breath. "It's Castiel."

Bobby blinks, very slowly. "That supposed to mean anything to me?"

"No, it's, uh, I..." Dean honestly needs more beer than that. He says, down towards his knuckles, "I gave him a ring, too. He just, uh. He wears it on his other hand."

The look on Bobby's face, even out of the corner of Dean's eyes, makes it very clear he doesn't get it. "Dean, you havin' a seizure or something?"

Dean grimaces. Yeah, he’s probably making a couple of weird faces. He's not explaining this well at all. Because there's no fucking good way to explain it. "He's, uh. Bobby, he's the angel that pulled me out of Hell.” Dean swallows. “He's, um, _my_ angel."

And even as embarrassing as this is, it feels good to say that. His angel. Yeah.

"Your. Angel." Bobby's face is doing something Dean can't quite define. “Like… a guardian angel type deal? Those things are real?”

"I... uh. No, I don’t… um." Dean clears his throat and then goes on to tell a carefully edited version of the night and day he and Sam first met Jimmy and Castiel Novak. By the time he’s done, Bobby’s a little more relaxed: he’s heard most of this before, at least. "But me and him, we… connected, I guess," Dean says, carefully. "And no, I don't mean like how I usually connect with people."

Bobby stares at him and takes another swig of his beer. "So you didn't have sex in the back seat of your car, is what you’re sayin’?" It's said pointedly, with a snort, but Bobby's whole face is starting to soften, just a hair.

Okay, Dean is sure he has a better poker face than that. That was one of the more intense experiences of his life, but he hopes to God he wasn’t walking around with that written all over his face. Dean ducks his head. "Uh—yeah, well—that really wasn't the plan, that... Would you believe me if I said that was his idea?"

There’s a really, really long, white-noise pause.

Then Bobby spits out his drink. "Wait. You— _did_?!"

Oh, shit. Maybe Dean does have a decent poker face after all.

Dean stops halfway through looking away and going hot around the ears, and raises his head. Bobby's face has gone soft, alright—with surprise. "Uh," Dean manages, because he can't exactly fucking deny it now. "I mean..."

Bobby's looking at him like _he's_ having some kind of seizure. There's beer in his beard, and he doesn't look inclined to wipe it away. Then he raises his hand and, still without looking away from Dean, starts fumbling for something. He ends up grabbing some random piece of paper and dabbing at his chin with it.

"So, uh." And now _Bobby_ is starting to turn red? Dean stares. He's never seen that before, either. "I’m thinking this is part of the ‘other stuff’ Sam mentioned but chose not to elucidate over the phone.”

That actually surprises Dean. The fact that Cas is a dude seemed to be Sam’s biggest sticking point to strange behavior: him not mentioning it to Bobby means he was either further gone than Dean thought, or he thought he was protecting Dean for some reason.

Fuck, even drugged up, Sam cares.

Bobby clears his throat and catches Dean’s attention again. “So, guys now?” 

Dean closes his eyes and drops his head to the back of the couch. There are conversations he never, ever wants to have, and it seems like today is the day he has all of them at once. Yay. 

He clears his throat, but is definitely not opening his eyes for this part. "Uh. So. It's actually not a new thing? I uh— a few times before Cas. It wasn't ever really a common thing? Like, it wasn't what I was looking for most of the time. But it was—you know. Fine? Everyone had fun. You know?"

"For the love of all that is holy, please stop talking." Bobby sounds beyond pained, and from behind his closed eyelids Dean can hear the opening and pouring of something much stronger than beer.

"More than happy to never speak of this again," Dean sighs.

Bobby is quiet for long enough that Dean cracks an eye open. Bobby's staring at him. “Okay.” Bobby takes a deep swig of something brown and a little cloudy that Dean’s almost sure came out of a bottle with no label. “So. Angel stuff. Last I heard, though, the guy who you said could hear angels… I thought he died.”

Dean opens his eyes the rest of the way. "Yeah… I mean, he did, in a way." He doesn't mean to sound so torn-up about it, even now, but the whole thing hurt him in ways Dean had never imagined hurting. "It was—bad."

Bobby makes a noise that almost sounds like understanding.

"And then... Jesus fuck, I don't want to call it a miracle, 'cause I don't think I believe in that shit." Dean shakes his head and turns the ring on his finger. "But Cas isn’t dead. He's an angel—guess he always was, just, crazy time shit happened. And he's helping out, y'know, us. The dumb monkeys that all the rest of the angels want to off."

"Because of you," Bobby says.

Dean looks up, because there's something weird in Bobby's voice. And everything in Dean, Dean's whole history, tells him to deny it.

Dean's not special. Dean was never the one who was smart, who was going to make something of himself. He was his dad's hunting partner. He's a weapon. He's the one who went to Hell, and while he was there, broke too many people to count.

But he's Cas's, too.

"Yeah," he finally grunts. "Maybe."

Bobby stays quiet. The bastard always knew how to do that. Dean cracks quickly. Maybe he just wants to tell someone.

"Those months?" Dean looks down at his knees, watches his ring rub against his jeans. "Where I thought he was dead? I don't know if I could ever describe that feeling my gut. I just… went all empty inside, and it kept churning around like it wanted to swallow me up. But I couldn't let it." Dean does look up then and he knows he's probably got a hot sting in his eyes, but fuck it. "Because of Sam. Because of the goddamned apocalypse, and Lucifer. Because the whole damned world seemed to be knocking at our door asking for help."

Bobby hands him a glass of whiskey without a word. Dean sips it slowly. Holy crap, that stuff’s got a burn to it. He swallows. "Then Cas was just… he was back. Saved me, again, I guess.” Dean shakes his head. “There's a story about how he got me out of Hell. We protected each other down there, and that sort of translated across Heaven and Hell and everything in between. And y’know what?” Dean doesn’t know where the anger that rises in him is coming from, but it’s hot and clean and bright. It feels good. It feels _righteous._ “ I'm glad. And I ain’t letting go again." He holds up his hand. "He gave me this, but only after I gave him one first."

Bobby doesn't nod. He doesn't say anything about it other than, "So." Then he cocks his head. "You happy?"

Dean blinks. He's never been asked that before. It doesn't matter if Dean's happy; it never has. Hunters aren't: that's how they end up hunters. All that mattered was that Dean does his job. Sure, he's always kept his shit together through all this, but maybe that's not the same thing.

He rubs his thumb over the ring. "I dunno," he says, not looking away from it. "I'm a hell of a lot better than when I thought he was dead?" He chokes out a laugh. "And if that isn't a fucked-up thing to say—” he cuts himself off, not sure what he really wants to say. Dean refocuses. “Look, Bobby, we've got Sam detoxing from fucking demon blood in the basement, the rest is—"

"That's that, and this is this, those ain't remotely the same thing," Bobby says, firmly. "You get 'em confused, someone gets killed." He shakes his head; Dean sees the motion of it out of the corners of his eyes. "Jimmy's that twin, then. His... brother." He snorts. "You got damned in-laws now?"

“It kind of sucks.” Now Dean's laugh is genuine. "You should have heard the interrogation I got over scrambled eggs and toast."

Bobby laughs and toasts Dean with his glass. "Karen's daddy asked me my intentions over a rifle. You lucked out."

"I dunno," Dean sighs. "Cas has a Ph.D. It was like two steps away from asking about my prospects and a fuckin’ dowry or something."

Bobby barks out a laugh, but what he says is, "Don't let no one tell you you ain't good enough, boy," with a ferocity that surprises Dean. It warms his heart a little. Bobby's opinion has always been something that Dean's cared far more about than some people might think is right, considering that John Winchester was alive for all of Dean’s childhood. Some people don't get that his dad being alive wasn't the same as him being present. Dean hasn't had either of those things in a long time.

Dean smiles. "Don't worry, pretty sure Cas'd rip anyone a new one before I even get the chance."

"Well," Bobby says, finally relaxing the rest of the way. "I like him already."

Dean doesn't want to ruin the mood, now that he's finally defused the situation, but he realizes there's some things he hasn't mentioned.

"It, uh... wasn't just luck that he called earlier, though," Dean says, low in his throat. Because he's so fucking tired of secrets. If Sam had bothered to ask, maybe Dean would've told him. But he didn't bother to ask. "The, uh... connection? It ain't a metaphor."

Bobby takes it surprisingly well, all things considered. He sips his whiskey. "'Cause he's an angel?" he says.

"Maybe. Some of it, there's... a lot about souls and grace and time and shit that I don't really get." Okay, that's about halfway a lie, but 'I just about come in my pants whenever he kisses my shoulder' is something that Dean's _never_ saying aloud. "He could tell I was upset. I can feel it before he drops in. I kinda... know he's..." Dean screws up his face and flaps a hand towards the window. "I know he's out in the world, somewhere."

Bobby sucks on his teeth, thoughtfully. "Might be useful. Ever tried to test it out? See what you get from him?"

Dean blinks. He hasn't considered that. There's been the occasional ping back and forth, and Dean does have a good idea of some of Cas’s emotions when they’re standing close. "It's been kind of a busy few months, Bobby, we haven’t exactly had time to try out ESP." Dean pauses, and then something occurs to him. "I think he's what broke the siren's spell on me."

Bobby nods, tapping the glass in his hands. "That does answer a few questions.” He’s unsurprised enough that Dean knows that he’s probably been thinking about it. “Y’know, I wonder how immune you might be to various mind controls, now."

Huh. Now that? That sounds kind of cool.

"Either way," Bobby nods towards the stairs that lead to the panic room. Sam’s stopped yelling. Dean doesn’t know if that’s better, or worse. "For now, you got a little time on your hands, might be something you can use to take your mind off things."

Bobby and Dean chat about it a bit, weaving in and out of it and general bullshitting until there's an almost tentative knock on the front door. Bobby pulls back a heavy, dirty curtain to peer out the window, and looks back at Dean.

"Constantine?" he asks. “Dark suit, ugly trench coat, pretty face, needs a shave?”

"Yep," Dean nods—though there’s something sort of hilarious about Bobby, of all people, talking about someone needing a shave. "That's him."

Bobby opens the door and Cas stands at the threshold with a rectangular box in his hands. It looks vaguely familiar. "Mr. Singer,” he says. Then, “Sir."

Sir? Huh.

Bobby squints, and looks him up and down. "You need me to erase some of the angel warding?"

Cas shifts back and forth on his heels and toes. "Not if you are uncomfortable. Dean should be able to let me in. I'll be much diminished, though."

Dean blinks. "What do you mean, I should be able to let you in?"

Cas ducks his eyes a little, then peeks up through his eyelashes. Fuck, that's cute. "I believe—though I'm not certain—that if you were to walk me past the threshold, I would be able to pass the warding."

Dean stands up, but squints at him. "What happens if you can't, though?" he objects. "You're not gonna go, uh, poof or vanish or something, right?"

Cas smiles a little. "I don't think so. I would just be stuck on the doorstep."

Dean glances at Bobby. Bobby shrugs; well, he did open the door.

His and Cas's rings click together satisfyingly when Dean holds out his hand and Cas folds his fingers through Dean's. Cas shivers with what looks like relief, and Dean pulls him through the open door. There's almost a weird resistance, like he's tugging Cas—except he's not tugging him, he's not doing anything but holding him—and then he's through.

Cas wiggles his shoulders like he's shaking off caterpillars, and takes a deep breath. Reluctantly, he lets go of Dean's hand. "That was unpleasant," he murmurs.

"Sorry, ain't ribbed for your pleasure, Feathers," Bobby snaps. Dean almost chokes.

Cas either doesn't get that—unlikely—or ignores it. "It wasn't a criticism. I'm glad it is unpleasant to angels, and that you have it," Cas says, all that earnestness he's got out in full display. "This is for you, sir," he says, holding out the dark red, fancy box with both hands.

Bobby takes the long box from him. When he slides it open, his eyes go wider, startled in a way that Dean hasn't seen in a long time.

What's in that box? Some sort of tool for all this apocalypse bullshit? Maybe some kind of old weapon, Bobby's such a packra—

Dean catches a glimpse of a warm, dark amber liquid in a fancy smooth-sided bottle, and a white label saying _Glenfiddich_.

"Welcome to the family, Castiel," Bobby says, staring down into the bottle.

"Bobby!" Dean complains.

Bobby holds the box close to his chest. "Keep it up and you're not getting any."

Dean claps his mouth shut. He doesn't get anywhere near the good stuff on a regular basis and usually Bobby's stingier with it, he's not ruining his chance.

Bobby leaves the room to find more glasses and Cas pulls Dean into an immediate hug. There's a sort of warm flush of energy that tingles as it runs down Dean's sides and back.

"You're okay?" Cas asks. His eyes are searching Dean's face, his hand cupping the back of Dean’s neck.

Dean nods. "Sam's been telling stories. Bobby just wanted to make sure everything was fine."

Cas looks around. "Where is Sam?"

Dean flinches a little. He's seen Cas and Jimmy. He's pretty sure there's no damned world that exists where one of them would lock the other in the basement as anything but a practical joke. Hell, from what they can tell, Jimmy helped break Cas out of that asylum. "He's, uh." But when he looks at Cas, there's nothing like judgment there. "He's in the panic room. Getting the demon blood outta his system."

Cas's eyes go soft and sad. He doesn't mouth a platitude like 'it's for the best.' But he does tighten his arms, gently, pulling Dean into his shoulder.

Dean grimaces. "Cas," he says, hoarsely, into the side of his neck. "What if we're wrong? What if..."

'Cause he can say it to Cas when he can't say it to Bobby. When he can't say it to himself.

What if Sam's way is the only way?

But he doesn't have to say it. Cas murmurs, "I don't know, Dean. But I, for one, am going to stand with you and fight for your brother's soul. The world can burn."

"Amen," Bobby says from somewhere behind Dean and since Dean is sort of over feeling like he needs to hide, he doesn't move one muscle out of the hug. "Though," Bobby continues wryly, "I'd appreciate if we managed to save the world too. I mean, I got all this good booze to drink now."

Dean smiles into the hollow of Cas's neck before slowly pulling back. He turns to find Bobby offering them each a much cleaner, nicer glass than normal, each one with about an inch of amber liquid inside.

Dean and Cas take their glasses and Bobby lifts his. "To family, an’ to saving’ the world," Bobby toasts, and the three of them clink their glasses together.

Cas downs his in one go, but there's a flush that creeps up his neck and cheeks nearly immediately. Dean eyes him curiously. He shrugs. "The wards. In order to be inside of them, my grace is suppressed. It's a bit like what happens when I’m close to you, only on a grander scale."

The celebratory mood lasts right up until Sam's screaming kicks back in, and it’s not the same kind of yelling. It’s so much worse. 

After they’ve got to get Sam strapped down, the three of them kick full on into research mode. 

Cas tells them that his inside man, Anna, is more sure than ever that Lilith's death is the key to something, but to what, she's not sure. Cas says that all of this with the seals, with getting Lucifer out of the hot box, is almost like just one big ritual. He's leaning towards Lilith's death being something important, instead of something they should just be gunning for willy-nilly. There’s some stuff in Bobby’s books about death being the final tumbler in a cosmic lock.

But they’ve got shit for time. Cas also says there aren't many seals left. Three. Two. Maybe one. And neither he nor Anna were, or are, high up enough to know what those last ones are.

"Oh, yeah, that ain't suspicious at all," Bobby mutters. "You'd think that they'd have as many winged bodies piled on those seals as they've got."

Cas grimaces a little. The side of his thigh presses against Dean's. He has a purpling bruise on his cheek from where they had to hold Sam down, just shy of a black eye. It took all three of them. Dean wants, more than anything, to rub the old blood under Cas’s skin away. "Yes. And Anna thinks—" he pauses, and his eyes unfocus. Then he shoves to his feet. "There's someone outside."

Bobby grabs his gun, Dean grabs the angel blade tucked into the sheath at his back. Cas makes his appear out of nothing but a bit of trench coat. Dean would find that kind of cool if there weren't other things going on.

Cas gets the first look out of the window; he tenses but doesn't immediately turn back and warn them, so Dean thinks maybe this isn't—

"It's a reaper," Cas says, mouth turning down in confusion.

Dean's ready to start a fight. "Oh hell no,” he hisses. “No reaper is taking my baby brother before he's good and ready." Goddammit, goddammit, there’s no way the blood detox would kill him, right?

Cas puts a gentle hand on Dean's arm. "Dean. She's visible to the human eye. She probably knows I'm in here and is waiting for us to respond to her presence. If a reaper was sent to take Sam, we'd have no idea." He pauses. "I'd be hard-pressed to be aware of one when not in the same room, especially right now."

Bobby cocks his gun anyway. "I'm of a mind to shoot first and ask questions later, but seeing as how she's being so accommodating, let's at least ask her what she wants."

Cas, 'cause he's a polite little sweetheart, doesn't tell Bobby that there's as much use to that shotgun he's carrying as there would be to throwing glitter at her. Though his lips do twitch a little. They come through the door nearly shoulder to shoulder, and Dean's kind of annoyed that both Cas _and_ Bobby somehow figured out how to box him in so that he's the last one out—

What the hell?

"Tessa?" he blurts, peering over Cas’s shoulder.

She blinks at him, and sighs. "Oh. It's you."

Well, that's nice.

"Dean Winchester. You just never... they should mint a bad penny after you. I should've known you were involved," she mutters. But then she tilts her head. Her eyes swivel towards Cas. "You found your angel, I see." Her eyes narrow, and then she squints. " _Wow_ , okay, you two are so blended now you practically overlap. No wonder you were so miserable!"

Dean absolutely does not look at Cas or blush or shuffle awkwardly or duck his head. Nope. He's just gonna pretend that was never said, and be a much happier and more comfortable person that way. 

He can practically feel Cas's restrained laughter at his discomfort, though. Asshole.

Dean chooses to move the conversation along. "So if this isn't a social call, then what is it?"

Tessa is absolutely not fooled; she rolls her eyes, but doesn't comment on it. "I didn't know _you_ were here, but it does explain why I was picked to issue the invitation."

Next to him, Cas tenses dramatically. "Invitation?"

Tessa graces them with a vicious smile. "My boss sent me to issue an invitation to lunch. He wants to meet with the, and I'm quoting now, 'tiny little seraph who has the audacity to think he can ignore prophecy, and his even more insignificant ant-like human.' End quote."

Cas goes rigid. He’s shocked and it’s showing: he's actually shaking. Everyone stares at him until he replies, his tone almost _meek_ , and for all that Cas is polite, that’s just… not like him "Does… Death have a preference about our meeting time and place?"

Holy shit. Dean's tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. "Like... Death, death?" he blurts.

Tessa gives him an unimpressed look. "The one and only. Literally."

Okay, that explains why Cas is shaking.

"Like, the Grim Reaper?" Bobby says. Well, at least Dean's not the only one who's tilted sideways by this.

Tessa sighs. "Wow. Please don't call him that to his face. It's insulting. It's like calling a company CEO an 'elevated mailroom employee,' and after everything, I'd hate to see you flicked out of existence because you were rude."

That statement's surreal enough, but it gets worse when she hands over what looks like three restaurant menus. "Here. Pick one. He'll meet you at whichever one you pick at eleven thirty AM tomorrow."

Dean opens his mouth. Then he realizes there's pretty much no answer that'll make sense, and closes it again. See, he's learning.

"You're learning," Tessa says, with a twitch of a smile, and that takes all the triumph out of it. And then she's gone.

Bobby peers at the menus. "Well, at least they're all pretty local."

Cas stares at the empty space where Tessa was standing before she blinked out. "No one other than a reaper has actually seen Death since, perhaps, the beginning of time," he murmurs.

"Well, that's comforting." Dean drops his face into his hand. "If Death wanted us dead, we'd be dead right?"

Cas shrugs, still staring at the menus on his hand. "I couldn't possibly say."

Yeah, that sounds about right. They shuffle back into the main research area of the house. Bobby eventually points to the middle menu. "That place isn't bad, it'll deep fry just about anything. Try the oreos, they'll knock your socks off."

Cas seems to finally shake himself out of his stupor and carefully puts the menus down. "Okay. That sounds good." His face doesn't look like it sounds good, but Dean's pretty sure that's more to do with Death requesting the honor of his presence at dinner.

Dean reaches out—because he can, now, he can—and runs a hand down Cas's arm, ending by just barely brushing their fingers. It gets a tiny little smile out of Cas, at least.

"Should look at the lore on Death," Bobby mutters, "Just in case. Y'know."

Oh, yeah, that's real fucking comforting.

Cas gives Dean's fingers a squeeze, and gently lets go. "May I help?" he asks.

Bobby gives him a curious, assessing look. "An ad salesman like you know anything about lookin' at lore?"

Cas blinks. "That's my brother. I was a professor of religious studies. Most religious archives don't exactly use the Dewey Decimal system. Or English. So..." he tilts his head. "Yes?"

Hard to tell if he's being oblivious, or sassy, or both. But Bobby barks out a laugh. "Religious studies? Fuck a duck, maybe you're okay. Come on, then." He gestures with his chin.

Dean swallows. "I should check on Sam," he says, hoarsely.

Cas pauses. He gives Dean a long look and a quick little arc of his chin, a question in his eyes. Dean takes a few steps closer and offers him a small smile. "I'm okay, buddy."

Cas tilts his head, eyes softening further. "You're not. But that's okay, too."

Dean has no response to that, but it helps to hear it. He nods and lets Cas's fingers brush his again before Cas follows Bobby back into the inner recesses of the house. 

Dean stops at the top of the stairs and takes a moment before shakily taking them down. It's quiet in the basement. The panic room isn't soundproof, yet, but its walls are thick and reinforced. Quiet sounds don't really make it out of the room.

Similar for quiet sounds making it in, unless someone’s got their ear pressed against the door or something. Which Sammy can't because he's still strapped down. So when Dean pops open the little window at face height, Sam probably isn't expecting anyone at all.

At first Sam doesn't see him. They positioned his cot so that he’s facing the door, at least, but Sam’s off in his own world for a few minutes—arguing with something that isn't there. It’s fucking heartbreaking. Dean doesn’t even know how to interrupt him, or even if he should.

Then, between one moment and then next, Sam’s face abruptly swings towards the door.

"Dean," Sam says, neutral, but the tremor in his body is bad enough that it's affecting his voice.

"Sam." Dean presses his hand to the cold iron of the door. "How're you doing? Need some water?"

He can't hear Sammy swallowing, but he hears him shift around on the cot. "I'm so thirsty, Dean," he says. "Please."

Dean has the sick feeling he's not talking about water. But he can't deny him that. He says, "Okay, okay. I'll be right back."

"No! No, Dean, don't... she's here," Sam whispers. "She's here, and... don't go."

Dean jerks upright. "Lilith?" he hisses. It's probably a hallucination. Probably. But they can't take that risk. There's no fucking way she made it through the wards and into the panic room without them knowing, though, no fucking way, and—

"Mom," Sam says. Dean can hear the tears, thick in his voice. "She says... she says what's in me is evil."

The goddamned worst thing about all of this is that Dean can't even deny it. He leans his forehead against the door and chokes down whatever it is that wants to come out of his mouth next. Just ‘cause Sam did part of this to himself, doesn’t mean that he deserves any of this shit.

"Yeah, Sammy," he says, hoarse. "But you didn't put it there in the beginning. We're getting it out of you now."

"But what if I was chosen because of what I am?" Sam asks quietly. "What if I was always broken and dirty and that's why… that's why it all happened?"

Dean clamps his eyes shut and presses his forehead into the door. "Sammy. Mom made that deal. _I_ made my deal. You didn't get any choice in the matter for any of that bit of it. And if—" Dean's voice cracks. "And if there's something inside you that, I don't know, makes you more attractive to demons? Then what the hell do I have inside me, huh? The things I did in Hell? It wasn't just desperation. I enjoyed them. It was so good to finally be good at something. I liked it, Sammy. What's that say about me?"

Sam doesn't have an answer for that. But maybe Dean has an answer of just why it fucked him up so bad to see Sam standing there, all-but-glowing with demon blood dripping off his chin.

"You still want some water?" Dean asks, after a long, painful silence.

"Yeah," Sam says, but he's got his eyes on the ceiling, not looking at Dean anymore.

Dean cracks a nearby water bottle and grabs a straw. He visually double-checks the restraints on Sam's arms and legs before opening the door. Sam doesn't make any sudden movements, though, and when Dean presses the straw to Sam's mouth he drinks without hesitation. When he's done, Sam leans his head back down on his pillow.

"So how's your detox going?" Sam asks.

Ah. There it is. Dean's shoulders roll and his jaw clenches.

He doesn't want to be an asshole—not when Sam's strapped down and hallucinating their goddamned mom. But he's not taking that lying down, either. "Cas is off doing research with Bobby," he says, as neutrally as he can. "He brought him a bottle of Scotch."

Sam makes a low, shocked choking noise in his throat. Dean lifts the straw up again. This time, Sam turns his face away.

"He's one of the good guys," Dean promises. "We'll talk about it when the shit's outta your system."

If Sam were feeling himself, this is where he'd make a crack about knowing that Dean must be under some kind of spell now, if he's actually planning to _talk._

He doesn't. 

"What if I'm never better?" Sam asks, instead.

The answer to that comes easy, though. "You don't gotta be better, bitch," Dean replies. "You just gotta be yourself."

Sam looks at him, and for a second, that's his little brother looking at Dean, not the stranger he's become since Dean got back from Hell. "Jerk," he says, finally, and Dean's heart lifts more than it has in a long, long time.

Dean nods and turns to go. It's when he's at the door that Sam says, "Dean?" and his little brother sounds so goddamned young.

Dean turns. "Yeah?"

Sam's looking at the ceiling again, and his eyes are somewhere else. "What if there aren't any good guys?"

Well, that’s a hell of a question.

"You know, the funny thing is?" Dean says slowly. "For a long time, I'd have told you that's what I always believed. No good guys—just bad guys and guys who suck slightly less." He thinks about Cas—about how, for all his history, all he wants is peace and a little bit of companionship. But he'll stand by Dean's side, and die bloody if that's what's needed. He thinks of Bobby, upstairs kibitzing with a fallen angel. He thinks of Tessa, offering him a tiny, tiny bit of hope back when Dean wasn’t even sure he believed in hope anymore. "Now? I'm starting to come around to the idea."

Sam doesn't say anything else. Eventually, Dean shuts the door on him and heads back upstairs, feeling torn and inside out.

He finds Cas and Bobby nose-deep into books that are large and ornate enough to no longer be considered anything but lithographs. (Look, Dean’s a hunter; he knows what a lithograph is.) Cas glances up as Dean steps into the room and immediately slides a few unneeded inches over to make more space on the couch—a quiet offer of comfort if Dean wants it.

He does.

Dean picks up another book on the near towering stack between them and sits, thigh pressed to thigh. Cas's quiet “Hmm” of acknowledgement loosens up something in Dean's chest.

Bobby snorts, but he doesn't comment. He looks up and says... something. Dean doesn't think it's in English. He knows it isn't when Cas replies in the same.

He snorts, but doesn't complain. The book in front of _him_ , at least, is in English.

"How's the kid?" Bobby asks, a few minutes later.

"Getting better. I think," Dean says. He doesn't care if it's just hope talking. Maybe he needs that hope, right now. "How's the... stuff?" he waves at a pile of books.

"I don't think Death can be bribed, so we've ruled out ancient Greece and much of the Romans," Cas answers, seriously. “The Assyrians have something to say about it, though.”

Jesus Christ, Dean's stumbled into a pair of nerds.

At some point Bobby disappears. Dean sniffs food in the air and assumes he's gone off to make some. There's also some loud thumps and creaking, but Dean shrugs it off, mostly forgotten, when Bobby appears with three bowls of chili and some cold beers. Dean's actually hungry, like, really hungry. He stuffs his face without remorse or an ounce of humility. Good food is worth a little embarrassment.

He can almost literally feel the waft of amusement from Cas as he eats his own bowl, slower, but with no less appreciation. The bruise on his face is finally starting to fade a bit, but Dean still wants to touch it gently and take away the pain.

Eventually Bobby stands and stretches. "Alright, all of you who have an appointment with Death tomorrow, go get some sleep. I suspect you're gonna need it. I'll stay up a while longer and see if I can find anything useful in this pile of paper." Bobby starts stacking their dishes and empties before Dean can reach for them. He nods towards the stairs. "Go on up, second bedroom’s been cleaned enough to sleep in."

Dean looks up from the book he wasn't looking forward to picking up again. He's not quite sure what comes to his brain first: checking on Sam, or 'what the hell, are you a shapeshifter?' 

He decides on, "There's a second bedroom?" and then, right on the heels of that, "Did you say _'cleaned?'_ "

Bobby curls his lip. "You wanna sleep on the sofa again, boy?" He flicks his chin at Cas. "I already know this one doesn't really sleep, he already said."

Dean's back knows every curl of the sofa and every pokey spring, so that's a ‘fuck, no.’ He clears his throat. Yeah, he knows what's different. 

"Thanks, Bobby," he mumbles, finally. Shit, he doesn't even know what to do with the fact that not only does Bobby not have an issue with Cas being a guy, he just... made up a room for them. "Thanks."

"You pull out the Hallmark waterworks, they're takin' back your balls," Bobby grunts.

"Oh. That would be a shame," Cas says, completely straight-faced.

Dean goes completely red in the face, but Bobby snorts loudly and grabs the nearest book. "Git. Before I change my mind."

They get.

The bedroom is made smaller by the fact that there's boxes of books lining the walls. But there's a missing layer of dust that Dean knows for sure was there last time, and the bedding all looks well-worn, but clean. There's even two bedside tables squeezed in. Once upon a time, Dean imagines this was a guest room of sorts. He’s not sure he’s ever even seen the bed before.

The door closes and that seems to be the signal for Dean’s body to tell him how long today has been. His limbs are leaden and his eyes sandpapery. Cas comes up behind him, curling his body against Dean’s back. Both arms slide around Dean’s waist, and Cas hooks his chin over Dean's shoulder. Dean lets himself relax into the hold. Getting hugged from behind still feels a little backwards, but nice nonetheless.

Cas kisses the back of his neck softly, then behind his ear, his hairline. There's no real intent there, just soft affection.

Dean opens eyes he didn't realize he'd closed, and catches sight of his duffel bag, set on a dusty book box made out of a stolen USPS plastic basket. He chuffs out a laugh. "I think our families both had the same idea," he murmurs, leaning back against Cas.

"Our families," Cas says, and there's a heady shiver of wonder in it. "Oh."

"Yeah, I, uh... I didn't know if Bobby would be, um. Okay with it," Dean admits. He doesn't say that he didn’t really plan to tell him. Or that the moment Bobby started on with the detox talk, Dean might've already begun running through nearby motels in his head—just in case Bobby kicked him out.

"I wish you'd told me." Cas is quiet for a long moment, and he leans more firmly into Dean's back, his body curving. "My parents weren't. Probably still aren't," he says, very softly.

Dean blinks. He's never heard Cas say much about his parents, not since the first car ride. Jimmy never said anything about them, either—not even when he realized that Cas was alive. 

Now that Dean thinks about it, there weren't any pictures of them in the Novak house—and there were plenty of Amelia, of Claire, of Jimmy and Cas.

“Yeah?” Dean says, softly. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. "They were—are—very devout," Cas begins. "I was their miracle twin. Born on a Thursday, hidden behind Jimmy for all the scans. At least, that's how the doctors explained it. I know better, now. There's good odds I wasn't even in the womb for the whole nine months."

Okay that's a little weird, Dean wonders how much Cas the Angel can recall of his post-angel, pre-human life.

"They were so excited," Cas continues, but his arms tighten slightly and he ducks his head down into the space between Dean's chin and shoulder. "I was named for myself, which in hindsight I find hilarious. But growing up, knowing what little I knew and not knowing why… it was a burden. I knew when catechism was wrong. I could tell when Bible verses had been mistranslated. Gabriel was, absolutely, a _jerk._ ” Dean lets out a stifled little grunt of laughter at that. “My Ph.D was out of genuine interest in the subject, but not for the reasons my parents probably assumed.” 

Cas’s arms are like wooden bands, wrapped around Dean’s waist—getting tight enough that it’s almost painful. “You were always there Dean. _Always._ And in many of my dreams, the less sensual ones, we were surrounded by… imagery. Terrifying, shocking, painful. There were things I spent my whole life trying to make sense of."

"Jimmy knew, maybe before I did," Cas whispers. "We shared a room for most of our childhood. He was privy to some of my dreams. And my nightmares." His head moves in a little jerk. “He was the one who would wake me up before my screaming woke up the rest of the house.”

Cas starts to shake a little and Dean runs his hands over the arms holding him, right to Cas's hands. Dean taps Cas’s knuckles, and then braids their fingers together when Cas spreads his hands for him. It feels like it takes an effort.

"I had no real romantic interest in anyone, anyway, but I also knew how my parents spoke. What they believed.” Cas’s whole body moves against his back in something that’s trying to be a casual shrug, and not making it there. “For a long while, I contemplated the priesthood. It would be a refuge against the thoughts I couldn’t escape, and would get me out of those awkward dates everyone kept trying to set me up on.” He huffs, softly, against the back of Dean’s neck. “How my parents eventually found out that I was—am—gay isn't important. But having been a student for my entire adult life, I didn't have much, and I was still financially dependent on them, then. It's part of why I was working so hard to graduate early."

Yeah, Dean knows where this story’s going. The back of Dean's shoulder is damp. Dean’s throat aches with the words he can't quite figure out what to say.

"Jimmy was already working. He stood up for me—gave our parents an ultimatum.” Dean can feel it as Cas swallows; Cas doesn’t have to say what their folks chose. “I moved in with Jimmy and Amelia." Cas takes a long, quivery breath and shakes his head. "They didn’t have much, but… they made it very clear that whatever they had was mine to share. Even after Claire was born, and everything was very tight. They welcomed me into their lives and hearts, and made sure I knew I could be whoever I needed to be."

All of a sudden, Dean understands. He gets why Jimmy looked at him like that, like he isn't sure Dean's good enough for Cas. Like he's not sure he wants Dean anywhere near his brother.

Because Dean meant it when he told Jimmy that he's a big brother and he knows what it's like to protect his little brother against the world. And, in some way, against his Dad. Dean never had to choose—Sam made that decision for them, at the end of the day—but he's not sure he could have made the same choice Jimmy did.

He gets why Cas is talking to his back, too. Some things are too hard to say to someone's face.

"Well," Dean says, twining their hands tighter. "Far as I'm concerned, you are the miracle twin, and I'm pretty sure Jimmy would back me on that one. You've got a damned good family." He feathers his thumb back and forth against a tense finger. "And I'm really glad you didn't become a priest. I mean, I ain't devout or anything, but I think I'd've felt kind of weird about that."

He feels the shuffle of Cas blinking, then chuckling, softly. The sound of it is a little wet. "I would have honored my vows," he grumbles.

"That's what would've been the problem," Dean answers, and this time, Cas laughs. "Though, come on, Cas, you practically jumped me from the word ‘go.’ I know you're stubborn, but I think my ass would've been yours eventually."

Cas chuckles, a little deeper. "It's a very nice ass." He kisses Dean's neck again. This time, it's one of those tiny little sucking kisses that Dean enjoys so much. "I helped rebuild that ass, and I've been to Heaven. I can say from personal experience that your ass is the pinnacle of perfection."

Dean drops his head back, onto Cas's shoulder, giving him more space to work. "Hmm. Gotta say, yours is pretty nice, too." He remembers the other night, his hands spread perfectly over two round globes, the muscles flexing under his fingers as they worked together to come. Dean moans softly at the next kiss, shifting his hips back into the cradle of Cas's pelvis. He can feel Cas's dick, mostly soft, but still definitely there, pressing into the firmness of his ass.

It feels sort of indecently good, but also a little frightening. Dean has had no problems at all with their sex life, other than that they don’t get it that often But he sort of wonders about other things, now. 

Like, uh. The contents of that drawer in Cas's bedroom.

"Hey, uh, can I... ask you something?" he asks, because this is probably going to turn into one of those things he can't ask with Cas actually looking at him.

"You don't normally ask if you can. I am waiting with bated breath," Cas murmurs. Dean would normally call him a sassy asshole—because he is—but Cas says those words low and thrumming into the side of Dean's neck, his lips moving over a patch of wet skin.

Dean gulps. "Have you, uh... done, um. Y'know. More, um. Stuff?" Shit. He can't even ask _without_ Cas looking at him. "Nevermind," he huffs.

Cas gently disentangles their fingers, and runs a hand down Dean's hip. "Stuff?" he murmurs, and dammit, Dean has no idea what color his face is right now.

"That night, in the backseat of the Impala," Dean says, closing his eyes and enjoying the feel of Cas's fingers through his jeans. "When you asked me if I'd done this before, and said that you had, when you were in a, um. A dark place."

Cas freezes briefly before tucking his thumb under the hem of Dean's shirt, stroking slow circles in the skin he finds there. "You mean fucking."

Dean nods, his whole body fizzing with an electric warmth. He gets the feeling Cas went cruder on purpose. He doesn’t normally talk like that.

"Yes," Cas answers. "A… a few times. I bottomed. It was, mostly, uncomfortable and I only got off afterwards with some extra effort, when I was able to at all. I was never able to maintain an erection.”

Dean blinks. That sounds… pretty awful. Dean doesn't know if he's jealous of those other guys or not. He doesn't think so, though. That's not what that little achy knot in his throat is.

Dean's always liked sex. It was always how he managed to connect when he knew there wasn't gonna be any other kind of connection, and they'd be moving on down the road in a few hours, or days—the next hunt. He got good at it, too. Someone happy under him, or on top of him, always made him smile.

The fact that Cas didn't even have _that_ to keep him warm at night makes Dean ache.

“So, uh. I guess you… don’t like it?” he says, tentatively.

Cas shrugs a little. “I… it’s complicated. I liked the… sensations, the stimulation? But mostly only when I was on my own. I still… wanted, I _always_ wanted.” He blows out a long, slow breath. “It was just so much better, I think, without another person there that I was pretending was someone else. Even alone, there were occasionally times when, ah… playing with myself would just remind me of what I couldn’t have."

Okay. The thought of Cas using, um, the stuff in that drawer, solo in his bed? Dean doesn't even know how to deal with how hot he finds that visual, and his whole body trembles a little.

"But none of that's really anything we have to do, if you're not interested," Cas says, gently—maybe misunderstanding a little, with his grace all pushed in the way it is. He doesn't even sound disappointed. "And definitely not tonight."

"Not tonight," Dean agrees, then takes a deep breath and blurts out, "But, uh... what if I am interested?"

Cas shudders briefly, his hands tightening on Dean. He can feel Cas swallowing compulsively. "Then that," his voice is basically gravel, "is definitely something I'd want to experience with you." He sucks on the knob of Dean's spine, teeth scraping gently. "In whatever manner you wish."

And that? That's enough to rubberize Dean's knees. Cas did not sound all that thrilled about catching in the past, but that he thinks it might be different with Dean? That's all kinds of hot and endearing. (Okay, maybe a little terrifying.) 

Dean finally feels ready to spin around and face Cas, so he does, capturing Cas in one long, heartfelt kiss as he goes.

Cas wraps around him like it's his mission in life, arms surrounding Dean's ribcage, both hands sliding into Dean’s back pockets like they've lived there his whole life. Dean's got Cas's hair in his hands, threading through it with his fingers until it’s even wilder than normal. When he lets go, it’s to let his thumb sit at Cas's jaw, enjoying the play of skin and scruff over bone and muscle.

It's a very good kiss.

Cas sighs happily into it like he's thinking just the same. He starts backing Dean slowly towards the mattress—which ends up a really bad idea, as Dean almost ends up going ass over forehead from stumbling into a shallow box that's still sitting right next to the bed.

Cas grapples for him, and they manage to somehow not end up with a pair of concussions. Even though Dean's pretty sure that someone's going to have to crawl under the bed to get the books he accidentally kicked under there. (Not it.)

"Shit," Dean laughs, looking around at the fire hazard that is Bobby's collection of books.

"That," Cas agrees, but he drops a kiss on Dean's cheek. "Would you like to get ready for bed?"

Dean really does. It's just as weirdly nice as it was at the Novak house, strange and foreign and soft. Dean hands Cas a t-shirt—one of Dean's, because why the fuck not. He starts watching Cas peel himself out of his trench coat and suit and tie again.

It's distracting enough that Dean realizes he's been standing there for the past few seconds with his flannel dangling off the tip of his fingers, and by the time he's down to AC/DC and his boxers again, socks balled up in his boots, Cas is sitting up at the head of the bed, propped up by the headboard—both of his legs outstretched and neatly together, his back straight, not like he’s about to tuck in for the night. 

Dean straightens up with a little bottle in his hand that he found snuck into a corner of his duffel—sly angel snuck that fancy lube he had in his nightstand drawer in here, did he?—but he loses his smirk when he sees Cas is just looking at the wall, his expression serious and shaky.

Well, that just won’t do. Dean takes the bottle and lobs it gently in Cas's direction. "So were you being hopeful, or just trying to be prepared?" he teases, gently.

Cas blinks, but plucks the bottle out of the air like it's nothing. Yeah, the reflexes are obnoxiously hot. He looks at what he's caught and flushes just slightly, high on his cheeks. Dean's kind of enjoying this suppressed grace thing.

Cas shrugs, finally. "A little from column A…"

Uh-huh. Sure. Dean crawls onto the mattress on all fours. It's something that grabbed Cas's attention but good the last time, and boy, does he get it this time, too. Dean watches those blue eyes dilate in real time. He works his way over to Cas, a little shyly, and slings a leg over until his knees are on either side of Cas's hips and Dean’s hands are resting on his shoulders.

"Hi," Dean says, a genuine smile on his face. "How're you doing?"

Cas’s lost look fades, and he smiles back, letting his hands rest lightly on Dean's hips. "Oh, you know."

Dean smooths his fingers back and forth along Cas's shoulders, and watches the way Cas's eyes linger on his own eyes, his nose, his cheekbones, his chin. "Looks like you got something on your mind," Dean points out, softly. "And not the good stuff."

This time, Cas's lips curve—a little rueful, but real. His thumbs feather gently against Dean's hip bones, and a fingertip sneaks just barely under the line of Dean's shirt. "Dean, you are in my lap and you just handed me lube." His eyes almost disappear from how widely he smiles, and there's the expression Dean was going for. "If you imagine I can think of anything but 'the good stuff,' you underestimate your own attractiveness."

Dean leans close. Maybe he should feel weird about feeling Cas up here in Bobby's house, but hell, Bobby gave them a bedroom. Besides, Cas is looking up at him so hopefully that Dean's not sure if he wants to grin back or just kiss the fuck out of him.

Or both.

Cas's hand slides up the back of his shirt, tingling its whole way up Dean’s spine.

Definitely both.

When he bends in, the kiss is careful and slow, just an easy flirt of tongues, tight lips as they both smile into it. Dean doesn't know when this began to feel so familiar, like sinking into the Impala's purr as she goes down the highway. He presses Cas back against the headboard, and the feel of bare calves sliding over each other isn't familiar yet... but Dean likes it. A lot.

It's one long kiss with brief pauses to breathe—or for Cas to run his nose down Dean's, while smiling happily. Sometimes they land off-center, lips curving into the miss; sometimes they land perfectly and Dean marvels at how well they fit together.

Cas's hands like to wander, running long fingers all over Dean's skin. They like to push his shirt up so that he can trail warmth across Dean's ribs and backbone. The backs of his knuckles like to brush down Dean's stomach and his fingers seem to enjoy tweaking Dean's nipples, soft bits of friction that zing through his entire body.

Dean arches into all of it: simple, uncomplicated pleasure’s an old friend made new again, because it's Cas. Cas is pretty quickly becoming the person Dean has had sex with the most—Hell, probably already would be if not for the, y’know, apocalypse determined to keep ‘em busy and apart. Dean's forgotten that he can keep learning about someone long after he’s spent those first hours exploring their entire body.

He likes learning about Cas.

Cas's hands—both up his shirt and skirting over his nipples, now—make it pretty clear that the feeling’s mutual. Dean's nipples have always been kind of perky, but he's never enjoyed them being played with this much.

"You said you, uh, remade me," Dean says, shivering. He's not really thinking too hard about the logistics of that, because that's a mindfuck right there, but there's no denying the fact that Cas's hands seem to know exactly what makes Dean feel oh-so-good. "So what you’re saying is, you've had your hands all over my ass already," he teases.

Cas sneaks both hands around, sweeping down the back of Dean's boxers. He squeezes. "Yes?" he answers, innocently.

Dean licks his lips and fumbles for the lube Cas dropped a few kisses ago, pressing it back into Cas's hand. "Maybe, uh... y'know?" he offers, because 'hey, what about now?' sounds weird, and he doesn't know how to even verbalize what he wants to maybe kind of try.

Cas blinks.

Dammit. In the first place, Dean has a tough time asking for things he wants, and second, he literally lacks the vocabulary for this. Flirting his way into a skirt is something very different than looking into Cas’s eyes and asking.

Cas brings him in for a soft, soft kiss. One hand, the one not holding the lube, comes back up, and strokes Dean’s cheek. When he backs off, he looks so patient. "Dean, I do not think I would ever say no to you… well, barring certain circumstances such as shared bathroom walls.” Cas smiles a little sheepishly, and that makes the weird twisting tension in Dean’s belly ease up a little. “But I am uncomfortable relying solely on our connection to communicate during sex."

Dean ducks his head into Cas's neck, hiding maybe just a little, even while his cock is so damn interested in the proceedings his boxers are having trouble keeping him in check. He swallows, and then clears his throat. "Fingers?" he finally mumbles into Cas's skin. "I think? Is that what's, uh, first? I want to try what's first."

Okay, so on one level, the idea kind of freaks Dean out. He’s got a hysterical urge to ask if there are bases for gay sex the way there are in high school or whatever. He doesn't really know if his ass getting touched is going to feel good, and the whole business feels like it's just... more.

Which is stupid. It's not like Dean can deny that what they already do is sex, because fuck, anything that leaves Dean’s knees wobbly and his brain whited out is definitely _sex_. And not only is it sex, it's the best sex Dean's had in his life—over and over again. But a hand on him is familiar; a mouth sliding up and down on his cock is something he knows.

Having his own mouth on a cock was new, though, and Dean liked that—a lot. Pushing into the tight nook of Cas's thighs, also new, also very high on the 'fuck yes, let's do that again,' scale.

And on another level, the idea of learning all these new things with Cas, their connection making everything feel warm and intimate and deep in a way that Dean never thought was possible? Having Cas touching him, inside him in pretty much any way? Christ.

Yes, Dean wants that, and just the thought of it makes his cock catch on the wet on the inside of his boxers.

Cas laughs a little gently against his ear. From anyone else, it might sound a little condescending. "That was where I started, too, with fingers," he agrees. The one hand that's still on Dean's ass tightens, carefully. "And I did enjoy that, that feeling. I do enjoy it. Touching myself there, the feel of being filled just enough."

It's like he knows just how to ramp Dean up the right way rather than down the scale into being freaked out. "Yeah?" Dean breathes, though he doesn't raise his head off Cas's neck. Okay, Dean’s definitely going to want to watch that someday.

"But you'll let me know if you don't like it?" Cas insists. "You don't have to like it."

And that, that makes Dean laugh a little, makes it easier to pull his head out from where he was _goddammit not hiding_ so he can look Cas in the eyes. Oh, hell, for all those words, Cas is blushing, too. Holy fuck, that's too cute. "Yeah, Cas."

Cas kisses him then, long and deep—the kind of kiss that makes Dean a little dizzy in the best of ways. Dean raises himself up off his perch on Cas’s thighs just long enough to let Cas's hands slide his boxers down, just barely tucking under the curve of his ass. He gently lifts the band in front, one hand reaching in to pet Dean’s cock softly before moving it out of the way so it doesn’t snag. He nudges the front of the boxers under Dean's balls and that's a new and interesting feeling of support before the side bands creep down Dean’s hips, leaving the waistband stretched tight around his spread thighs when Dean settles back down.

Cas casually strokes his cock in one loose, careful hand, kissing with slow, tongued intent. Dean's just about starting to make tiny little abortive thrusts against Cas’s palm when Cas pulls it away. There's a distant click of the bottle and then Cas’s other hand curves against his ass and pulls his cheeks a little apart. What feels like a finger starts a slow careful pressure over his hole.

Dean presses back instinctively, nerve endings firing pleasantly. He doesn’t know when he closed his eyes, but he’s just fine with that.

Cas makes a soft noise against his lips that might be protest, but might be encouragement, Dean's not sure. But damn, that feels, it... the slip of it isn't the same as when Cas was touching him through his boxers. That was nice, but it was just a back and forth little glide, blunted by the cloth. This is... slippery, tingly, not pressure. He thought Cas was just gonna go for it, because, well, isn't that what he's supposed to do?

But Cas just keeps rubbing his finger back and forth in the crease of Dean’s ass, just... petting, sort of. It's the only place he's touching Dean directly—everywhere else is just legs and t-shirt and... did they forget to take off their clothes again? Dammit.

But Dean can't think too much more about that, because Cas has started drawing little wet circles with his fingertip, around and around. Okay, that’s really nice; he can hear himself gasping, tensing up. When Cas starts punctuating each circle with a gentle press right to the center, Dean groans. It's not _in_ him, but it feels like the promise of it.

Dean lets his hips ride into it, back and forth. It feels like he's thrusting into air, which should feel sort of stupid. At least, until Cas brings his other hand back up, now wet with lube, too, and gives him something to thrust into. Dean's whole body bows into that.

Yeah, it's different for sure.

Dean's pretty sure the distraction of the hand around his cock is intentional, when Cas's fingertip circles one last time, then finally curves in and doesn’t stop. But by then he's too shaky to care.

The fingertip inside him doesn't feel like he thought it might. It doesn’t hurt at all, for one thing. Dean's aware of it, but the tiny little gliding motions, in and out, spark right at the edges. It makes the thrust back almost better than the thrust into the tight slick place that is Cas's hand.

Cas eases his finger in slowly. Dean's aware of every bump of pressure as it gets deeper, but it's good. It's so good all he can do is pant against Cas's neck and try not to shake out of his own skin, both hands clutching tightly on Cas’s shoulders.

Dean wants more. He's not sure what more is, but God he wants it. Then Cas does... something. His finger bends, and wow, can Dean feel every single movement. The finger crooks just _so,_ sliding against the wall of his insides until—

Dean arches his back, eyes shut tight. His entire body explodes into a weird starburst of sensation all centering from somewhere behind his dick, and holy fuck he's going to come really, really soon.

"Dean," Cas murmurs, his voice hoarse and wrecked. If he asks _now_ how Dean's doing, Dean's going to bite him or something. But all he says is, "Yes, yes." He keeps dipping that finger into Dean in careful, even strokes with that little curve right at the deep end of every one, oh, fuck.

Why hasn't Dean tried this before again? 

Dean knows he's making some kind of noises: he can feel the vibrations of them in his throat, in his chest. He doesn't try and speed this up, because his body's already tight and shaking. He's not even sure he needs the hand Cas has around his cock anymore, but the fact that he's surrounded by Cas on both ends, that's what makes it perfect.

"Cas," he groans. "Cas, sweetheart—please, c'mon—"

Dean's not even sure what he's asking for, now, either. But then Cas's finger leaves him empty again and then comes back with two, a sudden achy little stretch right at his rim.

Dean doesn't expect that. He doesn't even really have a way to process how strange that feels, how good, before the sweet, achy tingle of pressure behind his cock takes over with a vengeance.

Dean doesn't even really register that he's coming until he's shuddering, spilling all over Cas's hand, his belly. Though that’s partially because, oh, _holy shit_ , the feeling of his body spasming and clenching around the fingers still gently curved inside him is unreal.

It doesn’t feel the same. It goes on and on, Cas occasionally moving one of his hands just _so_ , and triggering another small spasm until finally Dean just collapses forward onto him, messy clothes be damned. His entire body is quivering, and that's just a new feeling right there. 

Cas gently removes his fingers and pets Dean any place he can reach while Dean remembers how to breathe and move at the same time.

"Holy fuck," Dean rasps. "I mean, seriously. I have been missing out." He kisses the closest patch of skin he can find—in this case, the angle of Cas's jaw. Underneath him, Dean can feel Cas shudder and then hold himself unearthly still. There's a hot, hard brand against Dean's inner thigh and hell yeah, Dean needs to help with that right now. He might even be drooling.

He kisses Cas's neck a few more times, mumbling nonsense about how perfect and amazing he is because, fuck, that just redefined Dean’s entire world. Dean manages to get his boxers back up, sort of, with trembling hands before carefully sliding off Cas to the side and wiggling down. This way, all he has to do is encourage Cas to tip to the side and lean a shoulder against the headboard, so Dean's mouth can reach.

Above him, Cas's eyes are wide and his whole body arches into every touch. Dean noses into his groin, kissing the wet patch on Cas’s boxers before carefully nuzzling up and down the ridge Cas’s cock is making in the cloth with his lips.

"I'm close," Cas whispers, voice trembling.

Dean doesn't say 'already?' or ‘is that a problem?’ because shit, he just came in like thirty seconds flat, he's got zero stones to throw. But goddamn if that little quiver in Cas's deep voice doesn't do it for him just right, make him wish that he could get hard all over again.

Gently, he nudges the elastic of Cas's boxers under his balls, the same way Cas did for him, but in Cas’s case, it stays there: that gets this really delicious shiver up and down Cas's whole body. Oh, nice. Cas's hard-on almost smacks him on the nose when it bobs from just a little teasing puff of Dean's breath against it, but Dean's feeling good enough about the whole world that that strikes him as both hilarious and sweet.

Cas's groan gets cut off, muffled, as Dean licks a long stripe up him, base to tip. When Dean glances up, Cas has squeezed his eyes shut, the back of his wrist pressed to his mouth. Yeah, Dean gets that feeling, he gets it all too well... but if Cas isn't gonna open his eyes, well...

When Dean opens his mouth and gently tucks the head of Cas's cock against his tongue, the low noise that Cas makes can't even be completely muffled against the back of his hand.

Dean goes softly, giving Cas slow, gentle suction into the wetness of his mouth. Cas makes another muffled noise and his hips rock carefully with it. He never goes farther than Dean has allowed, but it’s more motion than Dean expects, almost like Cas is unable to really stop himself. Jesus, that’s hot. Dean's dick makes another valiant effort, but no. He is 100% fucked out, and fine with that.

Dean pushes Cas’s shoulders back against the headboard with a gentle nudge, and brings his hand up to cradle around the base of Cas’s cock, so he can stroke the parts he isn't practiced enough to reach. Maybe someday he’ll try it. For now, he hauls himself up so he’s partly sprawled over Cas’s hip and thigh, his other arm bracing him up. He doesn't want complicated right now, anyway; Cas seems too worked-up for complicated.

He rubs his tongue against that one spot just where the head of Cas’s cock meets his shaft, occasionally, but mostly, Dean lets Cas gently rut upwards into his mouth. When he’s got a good mouthful in there, he sucks, and that pulls the sweetest little shocked grunt out of Cas. 

Dean thinks he can't keep this up for too long, because having his mouth open and the effort of keeping his teeth away—yes, Dean knows _that_ much, thanks—is making his jaw ache. But Cas is starting to lose rhythm already—God, yes. At one point a shift of Cas’s hips pushes him almost deeper into Dean’s mouth than Dean can take, but not quite: just enough that Dean feels opened, pulled.

It's so unexpected from Dean's gentle Cas that Dean feels a moan vibrate on the back of his own tongue. Okay, yeah, he likes that. Maybe he kind of gets why Cas enjoyed having Dean's hand in his hair when he was going down on Dean.

Dean's just about to see if maybe he does want to try taking in a little bit more when Cas, over his head, gasps, "Dean, please, I'm so..."

He knows that sound, that raspy sandpaper edge that's taking over Cas's voice. The fact that he does recognize it sends this weird little thrill of happiness up Dean's spine. Yeah, he did that.

For a second, Dean's so caught up in the idea of Cas losing it that he forgets why Cas might be shaking his shoulder like that.

"Dean," Cas moans, quietly, then with a little more desperation. "Dean— I'm going to—" 

Dean’s startled for just a second when Cas twists into motion underneath him—but all he’s doing is scrambling for his own shirt, lifting it to reveal those flat abs that Dean likes to lick. That's when he realizes that Cas is still trying to be polite about it, and fuck if that doesn't make him want to try and swallow. But he hasn’t done that before, and Dean's not sure that's a good idea tonight. Another time, maybe, though.

He can feel Cas get just that much harder between his lips, and there’s a little burst of salt at the back of his tongue; Dean finally pops off with one long slow pull, putting his hand where his mouth was.

He almost doesn't make it: he pumps fast and smooth just twice before Cas's breath catches and stalls out. His back arches, and streaks of come decorate Cas's abs. Dean nurses him carefully through it with gentle strokes until he's a shivering wreck.

He eventually lets Cas’s cock go—Cas whimpers a little, which is the tiniest, cutest little noise—and pillows his head on the crook of his clean elbow. He just pets Cas's hip until he's not shaking anymore, and the little gasps he's making over Dean's head have settled.

Okay, so. Getting Cas off with his mouth? Fucking awesome. Getting fingered? Jesus Christ in a tiny canoe, Dean didn't know what he was missing. He's pretty sure that a lot of that is just Cas, but since he's also pretty sure Cas is just _it_ for him, he's A-OK with that.

He drops a kiss on Cas's cock—going soft against his thigh, now, and that makes Cas squeak over his head—and studies the white streaks of come on Cas's flat belly, curiously.

(Okay, he didn't try it tonight, but one day, he's definitely gonna swallow.)

Then Dean blinks. And smirks. "Cas, you, uh... look, you all covered in come is a pretty sight," and Dean is, one day, gonna blush about the fact that he can just say shit like that for real, especially since he means it. "But if you were trying to spare the shirt, that's a lost cause." Because, yeah, Dean came _all over_ him.

Cas looks down and blinks slowly. His face is sex-flushed and gorgeous, but Dean suspects that if it hadn't been all pink already, there'd be a blush staining his cheeks. "I wasn't exactly thinking clearly at the time." He raises an eyebrow in challenge, and his voice is still low and gravelly. Well, now, and doesn't that do great things to Dean's stomach? (Maybe his ego, too. Uh-huh, yeah, he did that.)

Cas pushes himself up, carefully tucking himself back into his boxers before taking his shirt off and cleaning off his stomach. He looks at the cloth in his hand, and shrugs. "Well. I tried, at least."

Dean wiggles his own shirt off without actually sitting up. He's too tired to move that far. Cas huffs a tired laugh at him and then grabs both their shirts and drops them off the side of the bed to be collected later. Watching Cas try to be coordinated is a bit like watching a baby deer try to walk. But it's fun. Besides, it’s not like Dean’s any better, right now.

Eventually, they wind up under the blankets. This time, Cas is resting on Dean's chest, his hair tickling at Dean's nose. Dean settles his fingers into it; he’s not sure why, but the way Cas nuzzles into his chest makes it clear that he doesn’t mind.

Sleep hits Dean hard. The last thing he remembers is Cas's happy hum as Dean gently scratches his scalp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tia:** Look, only _one_ of them should have to deal with mildly hostile in-laws, alright? And can't you just imagine Cas showing up at the door with a hopeful look and a bottle of scotch? Seriously, wouldn't that have melted harder hearts than Bobby's?
> 
> For those counting at home: so far, boyos have failed to get out of all their clothing five times. -wink-


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Tia:** We're a little more than halfway through, now! We're also so happy you guys seemed to enjoy Bobby so much! Some more familiar faces upcoming, with maaaybe some domesticity, maaaybe some plot, and a confrontation that's been long in the making...

Dean pulls into Cas's side as he wakes up—or he tries to, because he reaches out to pat at the bed, and, uh, it's just him in it. He blinks himself awake. What the hell? The curve where Cas's body settled is still warm, though.

That's not good. Is it? Shit.

Dean almost trips over their shirts on the floor when he hauls himself out of bed, and pulls jeans and another shirt and flannel on and grabs his Colt M19. But no one's screaming as he takes the stairs down two at a time, so shit, he really hopes that's a good sign...

Wait. Something smells like breakfast. What? Bobby can sort of make things, but a real breakfast isn't one of them.

He strides into the kitchen just in time to see Cas flip a pancake with one careful little tip of his wrist, Bobby watching him curiously from the bench table they use as a dining table.

Dean stares. He's not sure if it's because it's an _angel_ cooking food or if it's just Cas... cooking. Like, actual pancakes. He leans over to Bobby and whispers, loudly. "I didn't know you had pancake mix in the pantry."

Bobby shrugs. "He made it from scratch."

Dean blinks.

"Hell," Bobby snorts. "If you hadn't put a ring on it already, I might've."

In front of them, Cas carefully moves the cooked pancake off a cast iron pan that’s probably older than Dean and onto a small stack of already completed ones. He dips a ladle smoothly into the big metal bowl next to him and starts a fresh pouring of batter. "I can hear you, you know."

Bobby and Dean reply at the exact same time: "We know."

Dean can almost see Cas rolling his eyes even with Cas not facing them, and Dean grins at his back. Then his smile fades as he turns back to Bobby. "How's Sam?" He can't hear any more screaming... that has to be good, right?

Bobby topples his hand back and forth. "Drank some water. Couple of bites last night. Maybe get him to take some real food today. Not talkin' crazy anymore. Or any crazier'n normal."

His eyes flick to Cas, and then away. 

Dean sighs. "Yeah. After we bring him breakfast, we should... uh." He looks up, realizing something. "Cas, pretty sure we ain't got any syrup." Not that he means to sound ungrateful, because hell, homemade pancakes!

"I know," Cas answers, pointing with his chin at a saucepan. "But there was butter and sugar, so I made some caramel."

Bobby's eyes widen a little. "That ring thing legal?"

"That depends," Cas answers, a bit tartly. "Are you checking to ensure that I am truly one of the family, so that you might call upon my pancake magic whenever you wish? Or because you want to steal me away from Dean and have me for your own?"

Bobby, to his credit, doesn't even blink. "Right now? It's 50/50."

Cas looks over his shoulder and winks. "You wind up in hell for forty years, call me, we'll talk."

Jesus Christ, he is _terrible_ at winking: his other eyebrow tilts all the way up while he’s doing it.

Dean might just be losing his mind, but for once, he's kind of okay with it. Bobby grabs a small plate that's got two pancakes and a bottle of water and takes it down to Sam. "If he asks who made them,” he calls over his shoulder, “I'll tell him the collective guilt of the Winchester Family summoned them directly from Heaven."

Dean's right up in Cas's space as soon as Bobby's gone, kissing the back of his neck. "This makes up for the terror I experienced waking up alone." He brushes another kiss along the same spot. "Barely."

Cas tilts back against him, reaching back to run a hand up the side of Dean's thigh. Even from behind him, Dean can tell Cas is smiling. "Whatever happened to 'the way to a man's heart is through his stomach?'"

Dean laughs. "Pretty sure you don't need pancakes to seduce me," he murmurs, and okay, that's pretty sappy even for him. The little bite marks he left on Cas's shoulders and neck from when they were in Illinois are gone, now; but when he tugs Cas’s shirt a little to the side, just to check, the little pink crescents his nails left on Cas’s shoulders last night are still there. Dean has to admit, he's kind of been thinking about whether they'll stick now that Cas's grace is suppressed. "But seriously, if you flirt with Bobby again I might start bleeding out of my ears."

Cas humphs. "He's not my type anyway." Then he pokes his fingers over his shoulder and towards Dean’s face. There's a small, browned pancake pinched between his thumb and forefinger, its edge dark and sticky with caramel.

"You're my favorite angel ever," Dean says, leaning over to take it from his fingers, between his teeth.

Cas snorts. "Oh, if I thought otherwise, there would be angel blades at dawn."

"Angels do that?" Dean asks, interested.

"No."

By the time Bobby comes back up they're both sitting at the table, drinking coffee and eating pancakes. Cas's portion is much smaller than anyone else's, but Dean notices, because Cas doesn't normally need to eat at all, and he ate chili last night, too. It’s probably the wards on the house: Cas nods a little when Dean tries to ask with his eyes what’s going on. 

Bobby updates them on Sam. Which is, basically: he ate all the pancakes and said that the caramel was good; he's not talking to the walls and there's no new bruises or scratches around his restraints. (Dean’s trying not to be too hopeful, but he feels his heart rising at that.) Bobby also tells Cas, “Hey, if you got anything knockin’ around up there about demon blood withdrawal, now’s the time to share with the class.”

Cas shrugs, delicately. "There are… only certain individuals who are capable of…” he seems to be picking his words very carefully, “...internalizing demon blood in that way. So withdrawal has been known to happen, but Heaven's justice tends to be absolute. There's no margin for, well, anything. Anyone so deeply allied with demons would be considered sullied, and to Heaven, the answer would simply be death.” He pokes his fork into his pancake a few times, studying the pattern the tines make in it. “Our versions of rehabilitation are built around cutting out the malignancy, not rehabilitating it. My best guess is that once the worst symptoms subside, the bigger issue will be relapse."

Bobby sighs. "And there ain't no such thing as AA for demon blood. Still, something like NA might work for him in the long run."

Cas licks a sticky smear of caramel—and holy shit, Dean does not know how he made it, but it’s fucking delicious: Dean can feel it sticking to his tongue, his teeth, and probably his gut—off the back of his fork. Quietly, he says, "Sam's strong. And I honestly believe he did it because he thought it was the best way to prevent the apocalypse. Without that pressure, I don't think the temptation will be there."

"Yeah," Dean says, and puts his hand over the top of Cas's, forgetting briefly they’re at the table and in front of Bobby. "Look, no one drinks that shit voluntarily unless they think the world's ending."

"Damn, you boys are disgusting," Bobby says. He almost looks impressed. "But cute ain't gonna get you off Death's list."

Dean jerks and takes his hand off Cas’s, leaning forward. "You found something?"

Bobby makes an irritated noise. "Only that it's a bad idea to piss 'im off."

Dean slumps back in his chair. "Shit, Bobby, I coulda told you _that_ without cracking open a book."

There's a flap outside and a hard, woody smack that makes Cas jerk up straight, and even with his grace squished he’s on his feet faster than a human can move. His angel blade sings in his fingers. "No. That's an angel," he says, grimly. "Stay here."

Stay here? Oh, fuck that.

Dean follows swiftly behind as Cas makes a beeline for the front door, and charges through it without so much as pausing. Cas lets out a worried "Anna!" before Dean can even see what's happened.

Cas looks like he caught Anna on her way down. She's beaten and bloody, but conscious. Bobby's right behind both of them. He takes one look and sighs. "Come on, I didn't get around to angel-proofing the root cellar. She'll be safe in there."

Cas carries her without a struggle, and Dean belatedly realizes that he's outside the house wards; when Cas’s (Dean’s) t-shirt pulls with her weight, the scratch marks that Dean left on Cas's body are all the way gone, now. Cas catches his eye as he helps Anna onto an uncomfortable-looking chair in the corner of the cellar.

Dean shrugs, not at all ashamed of those marks or mourning their loss. He is a little embarrassed at the angry, upset feeling that he gets on seeing Cas use his grace, a precious resource, to help Anna heal the worst of her injuries, though.

"Thank you," Anna says, looking at Cas for what Dean thinks is a little bit too long, and that makes the angry, upset feeling a little less embarrassing.

The glow fades from Cas's fingers. She looks better, though her blouse is still torn and there are still bruises scattered over her neck and face. One sleeve of her suit jacket is ripped almost in two, and there's blood staining the sleeves underneath it. But she's not moving like she's bleeding from the inside anymore, and there's no pale, shining trickle at her neck; the arm that a second ago was bent in a way that made Dean's head swim is straight, now.

Cas, though, Cas looks mad like Dean’s only seen him a few times before: like if he could blow someone up with his eyes alone, he'd do it. "Who did this to you, Anna?" he growls out, even lower than his normal rasp.

"It doesn't matter, Castiel." She grapples at the sleeve of his trench coat—Dean blinks; just a few seconds before, Cas was still wearing a band shirt and a pair of Dean's sweatpants—and Dean realizes, with another twist of his gut, that some of her fingernails are missing. "It doesn't matter. It's Lilith. It's Lilith."

"Easy, sister," Cas says, kneeling by her side so she doesn't have to look up at him. He exchanges a worried look with Dean and Bobby. Yeah, Dean's only known Anna two seconds, and he doesn't remember that frantic edge to her eyes before. "We will find the first demon, and—"

"You can't kill her," she interrupts, her words tumbling over each other. She leans towards him like she can use her body to press the words in. "The first demon. The last seal."

That stops everyone.

Put like that? It seems really, really fucking obvious.

“Oh, no.” Cas shakes his head and sighs. "That's what I was afraid of."

Dean gives him a startled look.

Anna, having relayed her message, seems to relax. "There are garrisons all over earth, looking for the boy with the demon blood who can—"

"His name is Sam," Dean growls. "His name is Sam, and he's a person; he's my brother, and he's more than some _accident_ that happened when he was a baby and that he had no damned control over. This is the problem with Heaven. This is what you angels never understood."

Anna stares at him like he's speaking a foreign tongue.

"Free will, sister," Cas says, quietly. "It's more than simply a quirk of humanity left there to annoy us. It's about choice regardless of circumstance, and sometimes, even regardless of consequence. Heaven would tell us that one wrong move taints us for the rest of eternity; humanity would tell us to learn from it, and do better next time. I rather prefer the latter."

"Do you say that because you believe it, Castiel?" she asks, looking at him the way Sam used to look at platypuses in the zoo when he was a kid, when Dean could sneak him in. "Or because you've been human, and so you must?"

Dean's just about done with this chick, but Cas smiles a faint, crooked thing. "You tell me, Anna," he answers. "You're here, aren't you? Is this the wrong move, or the right one?"

She curves in on herself. "I don't know," she answers, looking down at her knees. "But I know that working with demons, trying to bring about the end of all the things our Father made us to love, is wrong."

Cas gently brushes her wrist, and rises to his feet. "If you understand that there's something there to love," he says, gently, "then you're halfway there."

Dean's the one who touches Cas, this time—resting his palm on the small of Cas's back, carefully, hesitantly.

Bobby's the one who chirps up, optimistic as ever, "So, what y'all are sayin' is: we're fucked."

"Maybe," Cas says, leaning back into Dean's hand , just a bit. "If Lilith's death is the final key in the lock, then it has to be something specific. These things don't work by accident. They have to be deliberate. Rituals, almost."

Bobby nods. "Alright. I'll see if I can dig anything up on mystical combination locks while you two have your little lunch date with Thanatos." He doesn't look all that enthusiastic about any of it, though. "Roma Downey here can stick around as long as she needs, I suppose." He lumbers off to get started.

Cas follows him out after a quick nod to Anna. Dean is just about to do the same when he pauses. He waits for Cas to be out of human earshot—though really, he'll probably hear it anyway—and leans down towards Anna.

"For what it's worth?" he says. "Cas's first exercise in free will happened long before he became a human. So maybe stop comforting yourself with the idea that he had no choice to identify with us lowly mud monkeys just because he spent time as one, and start thinking about why an Angel of the Lord would prefer it down here with us in the first place."

Anna looks at least mildly thoughtful when he walks away. Dean supposes that's something.

The Keg Chicken claims to have the best fried chicken in town, as well as chislic (what the hell is that? That does not sound good, not at all). But Dean finds, as Cas gets into Baby's passenger seat, that he's not hungry. And it's not just because of the pancakes a few hours ago.

Sam seemed just a little bit better when Dean went down earlier to check on him, after a shower. Dean’s little brother is still sweating and wild-eyed, but he says he's not seeing things in the corners anymore. He ate all the pancakes and drank all the water, and kept it all down. Dean has to believe that means good things.

Like he's reading Dean's mind, Cas reaches over and links their pinkies together. (Dean wasn't driving left-handed on purpose, it just sort of happened.) "How's Sam?" he asks, softly.

Dean gives him an amused little glance. "Are you reading my mind?"

Okay, not the question that Cas asked.

"You only get that look on your face when you're thinking of Sam," Cas answers.

Also not answering the question. Point to you, Angel Castiel.

Dean lets it go and shrugs. "Looking more and more like an ex-blood junkie than a current one. Not sure about letting him out any time soon though."

Cas gives up on subtlety and just takes Dean's entire hand in his, linking their fingers together, slotting into place like two halves of a carving that started out as one piece. "The active hunting by the garrisons worries me. I don’t doubt that there are also demons currently looking for him. Ruby already knows where Bobby's house is; it's curious that she hasn't shown up yet to 'help.’"

Dean squeezes Cas's hand. "Yeah. Bobby's got some ideas on how to strengthen those wards even more. And no offense to your friend Anna? But she's staying in the root cellar."

"No," Cas nods. "That's a smart move. Escaping Heaven's wrath is difficult. If anyone could do it, it's Anna, but…" he trails off.

"But it's possible Heaven is learning and they may have just attempted to trail her to Bobby's?" Dean guesses.

"Yes." Cas drops his head to the window. It's such a human move, and it makes Dean's heart flutter weirdly. "I fear I have doomed my friend."

Dean pulls into the empty parking lot of the restaurant. "Yeah well, look at the bright side: Death might just kill us on sight, and then we don't have to worry about any of this."

Cas’s glance sideways says _That’s the bright side?_ But instead, aloud, Cas murmurs, "If he wanted to kill us, your reaper friend could have done it." He tilts his head. "She is _that_ reaper, isn't she? The one who spared you?"

"Uh. Yeah," Dean agrees. "Do reapers work that way?"

"I don't know," Cas answers. "They're cousins to angels, but they only answer to Death." He reaches for the Impala’s door handle, but doesn't open it. "She's very pretty," he says, apropos of absolutely fucking nothing.

Dean doesn't have any damned idea how to answer that, and they're halfway to the door by the time he realizes that, for a second there, he actually forgot that they're going to meet that pretty girl reaper's boss. Big man capital D, Death.

He shoots a sideways glance at Cas.

Cas blinks at him, completely innocent.

Uh-huh.

Dean flashes his best grin at him. "Let's go kick some ass."

He's not sure why it didn't occur to him when he pulled into the empty lot, but the place is deserted when they walk in, all except for a single man He’s sitting at a long communal-style table piled high with what must be every item on the entire menu. 

There’s something wrong with calling him ‘just a man,’ though: it’s like an undersell. He’s wearing a black coat over what looks like an ill-fitting funeral director's suit. (Dean wants to know, what the hell is it with the bad suits?) The tie is silver-gray and patterned, but subtly. But none of the weirdness is the clothes: there’s something old and ageless about him, something just a little _other_. Like something huge is tucked inside the skin, and he’s not finding the packaging all that comfortable.

He also looks both a little bored and endlessly fascinated by the pile of food in front of him. He appears to be making slow but concentrated effort through something fried and meat-like, complete with a thick white sauce. It's messy food, and he’s eating with his hands, but the guy is still somehow perfectly clean.

"Do come in," he says, without even looking up. "Eat."

Dean swallows heavily. There's power in this room—the kind he can taste on his tongue. Next to him, Cas looks calm and collected, but Dean can tell he's scared witless.

They slowly make their way towards the table piled high with food. Dean recognizes that it’s pretty much all barbecued, smoked, or fried; it all smells fantastic, but he's not sure he'll be able to choke much down. His ass has barely touched the seat before Death points at a pile of breaded, golden-brown round objects. "I suggest you begin with the jalapeño poppers. They make an excellent starter."

Well, Dean's not stupid enough to say 'No thanks, I might hurl on you' to Death. He reaches for one.

"I don't really care for spicy foods," Cas says, with a little bit of apology in his voice.

Dean stops with the cheesy little fried bite halfway to his mouth. Okay, maybe Dean's not stupid enough, but apparently someone forgot to put Castiel in line when God was handing out self-preservation.

(Actually, considering everything that he knows about Cas? That... makes a lot of sense.)

Since there's nothing really else Dean can say other than 'please don't vaporize my angel,' he just completes the arc and puts the jalapeño popper into his mouth. He chews. It crunches real nice, a warm curl of cheese melting on his tongue, spiced with a pickled jalapeño.

To Dean's surprise, Death's mouth curves. It might be humor. But it might not. "Hmm," he says, then pushes another plate towards Cas. "Insignificant, but with opinions. I see."

Cas takes a piece of what looks like fried chicken skin, instead. He chews it thoughtfully and carefully before swallowing, making a small happy sound about it. Dean can't help but smile at it.

Death pauses in his snacking. "You two are curious ants."

Dean clenches his jaw and deliberately takes another popper. At least it's not ‘mud monkey.’

"How so?" Cas asks, picking up another bite of deep fried crunch.

Death selects a cube of red meat on a toothpick and chews for long seconds, before taking a sip of soda and swallowing. "You can't imagine how trivial you are to a being like me. This is one little planet in one tiny solar system in a galaxy that's barely out of its diapers. I'm old, little seraph. Very old. So I invite you to contemplate how insignificant I find you."

Dean laughs; he can't help it. "Hey, man, you invited _us_ to lunch, not the other way around." Next to him, Cas stiffens, but says nothing. Yeah, see how he likes it when _Dean_ talks back to the being of tremendous power.

"I wasn't sure you really existed," Cas says, taking another piece of chicken skin. Death pushes a plate of wings towards him, and he makes another happy little noise and scoops up a fried wing tip. "It's... a comfort and not, I suppose."

Death doesn't look like he wants to be interested in what Cas has to say, but that does raise his eyebrows. "I have heard that ambivalence about my presence," he says, "But I have never had my existence doubted. Make no mistake: I will reap you, little seraph, just like one day I will reap your Father."

Cas's mouth falls open a little and stays that way. He's wide-eyed in a way that Dean's never seen him.

Dean's about to bodily jump between Cas and the immortal incarnation of the end, no matter how fucking futile it is, when he registers what Death just said. "W-wait," he chokes, his next jalapeño popper tumbling out of his hand (Dean didn't realize he’d even picked up another one). "You'll reap _God?"_

Oh, so that's why Cas is making that face.

Death selects a drumstick with elegance, and peels the skin off it in a way that makes every one of Dean's goosebumps stand up and salute. "Oh, yes. God will die, too. Someday."

"I do not think I'm tenured enough for this," Cas murmurs, and he's gone white.

Only Cas would put it that way, so Dean almost blurts out a laugh.

Death laughs, and there's a gentleness to it that crawls, that freezes. "You see why I find it so entertaining that you choose to subvert prophecy? You are, as you say... in over your head."

"I didn't _choose_ to subvert prophecy," Cas says, hoarsely. "I chose to do the right thing."

That's the first thing that stops Death from his determined but steady pace through the endless pile of food. "You should not have been able to: not in that moment, not in that time." Death's casual front drops briefly, and what’s left behind is cold. "You two are the proverbial spanner in the works, and you have angered a great many powerful beings."

Dean snorts. "The angels?"

"God," Death corrects. "He was quite… miffed… at first. Oh, you were absolutely supposed to have a chance, I suppose. Humanity and their free will.” He shrugs with just one shoulder. “It's what God likes about the game, after all, but free will to beings like us is simply a bigger assortment of possibilities to watch play out. Not... something genuinely surprising."

Cas has dropped his chicken wing and, if possible, gone even paler. "God… thinks we're _wrong?"_

"Honestly? He hasn't been this tickled since the invention of nacho cheese." Death goes back to glancing over the assortment of food in front of them. "He didn't see it coming; none of us did. But he doesn't care further than that. You two ants are remarkable... for ants."

Dean opens his mouth to say "God likes _nacho cheese?_ " but he stops himself in time. Who's Dean to comment on God's taste preferences? Dean's got no problem with nacho cheese.

"Um," he says, instead. "So you invited us for lunch because... we're interesting?"

"Precisely." Death licks his fingers, delicately, and reaches with interest for a deep-fried beef rib almost as long as his forearm. "If you're interesting now, who's to say that you might not be interesting later?"

Dean exchanges a look with Cas.

Cas answers, honestly, "Sir, considering that your existence means that your, your brothers most likely also exist, I think we would prefer to not be that... much of a topic of discussion."

Dean's not sure what Cas means like that—Death has brothers?—and Death eyes Cas over the bony end of the beef rib, as clean and glistening as a graveyard stone. "Oh, my brothers are indiscriminate. And I am older than them all." He cocks his head to the side in a way that is completely alien. "I am also old enough to see where your current trajectory leads."

"Oh-kay?" Dean says slowly.

"Prophecy would have had you succeed, but lose at the same time." He takes a delicate bite out of the rib’s meat. Grease trickles over his fingers and never drips off them. "It would have kept you in an endless cycle of violence and loss that would eventually look like winning to you, because it would be all that you knew."

Cas's hand finds Dean's under the table. "Prophecy is rarely about the good times," he says, hoarsely. "Subjects of it are often rewarded with rest at the end, but it's rarely a… peaceful life."

Death nods and points at Cas. "You, at least, understand some of the basic machinations of this universe. It's built into your base coding." He takes another careful bite, chews and swallows. "When God created thinking creatures to populate the Earth, it didn’t matter how fleeting and insignificant your lives were: he had to codify certain things into the workings of the system."

"Hence," Cas says slowly, "why you will one day reap him."

Death nods. "Yes. But it also put me into this great chain of events as well. I know what happens when Lucifer rises.” His upper lip curls, and the next bite he takes of the rib tears off a chunk. “He would be able to bind me, and use me. _Me_. He would involve me in his pathetic little temper tantrum."

Dean's having lunch with a being who talks about the day he kills God—because it's all part of the rules, apparently? Fuck, fuck—and complains about the Devil having a temper tantrum. He swallows, dry. Swallows again. "We're trying to stop it. Lucifer. The whole dance with the devil fandango. You're saying we can't?"

Death finishes up his beef rib, and sighs in pleasure, like his expression never changed at all a few seconds ago. He takes up a little finger wipe to clean off his fingers, and dabs at the corners of his mouth. "I'm saying _I_ can't," he says. "Because I am as coded by the universe as anything, as all things. But you?" he shrugs. "You're just ants."

Cas sits back with a drummette dangling from his fingertips. "'Go to the ant, O sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise,'" he says, in that rhythm he only gets when he's quoting something. "'Without having any chief, officer, or ruler, she prepares her bread in summer and gathers her food in harvest.'"

The skeletal man in a suit smiles, thinly. "Lucifer does not realize he is an ant, too."

Dean can't help his shiver, this time.

"You have a chance," Death says. "Maybe. But I cannot promise what Heaven or Hell might do if you subvert this before it even gets started." He shrugs like Heaven or Hell don’t matter, and chooses a different platter this time: something else small and round and fried. "But because you are ants—and not just any ants, but interesting ants who've managed to find their own path out of the anthill—knocking it all over might not completely obliterate you."

"Right," Dean says. He gets it: they’re ants. "But you still haven't told us how."

Death pauses, one breaded round thing halfway to his mouth. "Now, how would I know that? _I’m_ not an ant. "

Now Dean's starting to get frustrated. He's willing to be called ‘tiny’ and ‘unimportant’ and all sorts of things to save his brother's life. Or Cas's life. Or heck, to stop Lucifer. But if it's for some vague advice that won't help at all? Then fuck it.

"There’s a being named Crowley," Death says, before Dean can finish working up a head of steam. "Strange little creature. He has one of my old scythes. It will kill most things in existence, if that’s something that’s useful.” He turns his next bite—one of the fried oreos that Bobby talked about—between his fingers. “Well, except me. A few others, I suppose. I would find it... helpful if it were no longer in his possession.”

Dean says, very intelligently, "Huh?"

Cas is crinkling up beside him, hunching deeper into his trenchcoat with a furrow appearing between his eyebrows. "Crowley? Do you mean the little man who sold his soul for..." Cas clears his throat, twice, and shakes his head. "Why does the king of the crossroads demons have Death's old scythe?"

The look that Death shoots at Cas makes Cas disappear further into his trench coat. O-kay then.

But wait. The king of the—"We are _not_ making some kind of a deal, Cas!" Dean exclaims. His hand presses, automatically, to his stomach. It doesn't hurt anymore, but he still remembers the claws going through it.

"We may have to," Cas answers, softly.

"No." Dean jabs a finger at his face. "We don't make those kinds of choices."

Cas looks at him, very steadily.

"Not _anymore,_ we don't make those choices," Dean insists.

Death taps his fingers on the table. It's not a loud sound, but somehow, it echoes through the room. "This is no longer interesting. You may leave now."

Dean stares at him.

"You may take some of the food with you, if you like," he continues, like he's granting them some great boon.

Cas actually lifts up a Styrofoam to-go box—were they always there?—and starts filling it up. Death nods at him approvingly. 

Dean thinks he might need to consider prescription medication. This is nuts, all of it is nuts.

He says as much once they're back in the car, then adds, "Also, what the hell is with taking the food?!"

Cas clutches at the box. "It seemed impolite to decline."

Yeah. Yeah, okay. That’s fair.

Bobby looks at the box like it might have something dead in it (har har) when they bring it in, but he doesn't look any more pleased than Dean feels about the whole shitty business. "You had lunch with the Big Daddy Reaper himself, and brought home _takeout_?" he says, dubiously.

"Death told us to," Cas answers, like it's the only answer necessary. Dean guesses it is.

Bobby grunts, but he checks the contents of the box anyway, popping a hush puppy into his mouth. He makes a rumble of pleasure. "Was all that supposed to be a hint, a threat, or a warning?" he asks. He takes a chicken wing, too.

"I don't know," Cas sighs.

"Pretty sure it wasn't a blessing," Dean growls. "And before you say anything, no, we are not summoning any damned demons."

Both of Bobby's hands fly up. (He doesn’t let go of the chicken wing, though.) "Whoa, now, hold your horses. Who's summoning demons?"

Cas explains, because of course he does. Bobby doesn't say anything at first, and just nods along. Dean starts to feel his shoulders go up, ready to explain exactly why this is a dumb fucking idea. He should know: he's been the one who’s made the deal, and the one left standing after someone else did. He's got experience from both ends of that particular crappy situation, and neither waiting to be dragged down into Hell or watching someone he loves take that nosedive are happy places to be.

"Well," Bobby eventually says, three more hush puppies and a wedge of fried green tomato later, "It's worth asking."

"What?" Dean stands abruptly from where he's been slumped on the couch with his head flopped back, staring at the ceiling while Cas talks. "We've dealt with crossroads demons before, they're only out to screw you. And the last one went straight to Lilith! Why the hell would the king of them be any more interested in helping us than his little minions ever were! I mean, he's a demon: _by definition_ , he’s on Lucifer's side!"

Bobby stares at him, one eyebrow raised as if to ask, 'you done yet?' When Dean huffs and throws his hands out in frustration, Bobby shrugs. "I'm not saying we make a deal. I'm saying, we see what this guy says. Look, Death doesn't just make house calls for anyone, and he literally invited you to lunch. That's gotta mean something."

"It means we're interesting ants," Dean bites out.

"Dean," Cas interrupts, quietly. "I'm not so sure about that."

"We're _un_ interesting ants?" Dean retorts, throwing up his hands. "'Cause somehow, that seems like the better option right now! Maybe we can go back to that?"

Cas folds his hands and gives Dean a quiet look. "I think, if that were the case," Cas says, and the gentleness in it makes Dean sure that his next words are going to be a punch. "I would not have fallen for you."

Shit. Shit. "Cas, I didn't..."

Cas sighs, but looks him so deeply in the eyes that Dean thinks his soul shivers. "I know. But I think this is bigger than us, and you know that. We have to think about it that way."

Dean knows he's right, but he doesn't have to like it. "I'm gonna check on Sammy," he growls, and stomps off towards the stairs. He pauses at the bottom, taking a deep breath. Dammit, for like half a second he thought they might have it: a way out without soul-destroying consequences. He shoulda known.

Cas sends him a brief, achy point of connection and Dean rubs his chest and smiles, just a little. Through the wards, that had to be tough.

Sam is quiet when Dean peeks in. Bobby appears to have let the wrist cuffs stay off after breakfast. The cot has also been pushed against a corner of the room. Sam is seated cross-legged and leafing through something that looks like it was grabbed from a secondhand book store, but not really paying that much attention to the door. He doesn’t make a run for it.

"Hey, Sammy."

Sam puts the book down and leans against the wall, eyes closed. "Dean."

"So, I had a fun afternoon." Dean tries for casual but really, he's still rattled.

"Cas take you somewhere good?" Sam asks, but his eyes are still squeezed shut and his mouth is set in a grim line.

So this is still a thing, then. Before Dean can muster up exactly what he's gonna say to that without taking Sam's head off, Sam says, "Can I have a phone? I have to call Ruby. She's probably getting worried." Sam's lips curve in what might pass for a smile. "You can't object to that, right?"

Dean's had a really shitty, long day already, and it's just past noon. Any trace of the skip in his step when he woke up is well and truly screwed, now. "What the fuck is your problem with Cas?" he says, tight and sharp, because if he doesn't rein it in now, he's gonna explode. "What the hell's he _ever_ done to you—or any of us—that makes you think—"

"That he's an angel?" Sam retorts. "Like the ones who kidnapped you to, to, I don't even know, get you to Alastair? Dean, I don’t know how it is I didn’t make the connection, but you were acting like part of you had _died_ for those weeks when we thought the grace had killed him! The way you were acting, I was really worried you were gonna just… just fade away, or worse, get yourself killed, and I didn’t even know why! And now you’re telling me it was because of Castiel? This guy you'd known _two days_? This _guy_?!" Sam scoffs, and shakes his head. "It's not even believable!"

"Wow," Dean all-but-sneers. "Homophobe, huh? Never took you for one. I guess not everyone who’s lived in California is so liberal-minded. You know, of all the people I was worried about, you were at the very bottom of the list?" It's absolutely not the thing to say to defuse the situation. Dean knows it, and doesn't care. "I'm kind of ashamed of you right now, Sammy. I mean, really."

"Homophobe? Really?" Sam's voice has reached the kind of screechy tipping point he used to hit regularly during puberty. Dean's kind of proud of that. "Dean, _you_ describe angels as dicks with wings, and you’re not talking about the ones in their pants! It's not homophobic to think that you, of all people, taking up with—and then _pining for_ —one of them might be at least a _little_ hinky!" He stops to pant in a couple of breaths. “But yeah, that… I don’t care that Cas is man-shaped, but you can’t tell me that’s not weird. Dean, you’re a manwhore, and you’re totally freaking heterosexual!” 

Dean is actually a little hurt by the 'manwhore' comment. "What? Ruby can be an exception to the supernatural asshole rule, but Cas can't?"

"That argument would work better if you weren't keeping me locked up like this," Sam mutters. “Also, she’s in a _lady_ body, isn’t she?”

Dean clenches his fist hard enough that he can feel his fingernails dig into his skin. "Well, I got some news for you: on at least one front, you ain't as observant as you think you are."

"Because Cas is 'different?'" Sam sneers.

"Because I'm _not fucking heterosexual,_ you know-it-all little asshole, and I've never been!" Dean shouts. "What, you think those times I went out for 'drink runs' without you I was always just gettin' a drink?"

The anger stutters on Sam's face. 

"Huh?" he says, like Dean just broke his Stanford brain.

"Cas is an exception. Yeah, he is," Dean spits. "But it isn’t ‘cause he’s a guy, it’s 'cause I give a shit about him, and I really didn't give a shit about any of the other guys I fooled around with. Alright? You happy? We done with that data point? Wanna move on to the one where that angel _gave up Heaven_ for us?"

"What?" Sam finally asks, into the silence, as the judgemental sneer slides the rest of the way away. Some of this information isn’t new to Sam, but it’s like he hasn’t even thought about it since Cas told them exactly how it all happened over a pile of poorly-written novel drafts. It’s like the anger and resentment has clouded really specific memories in Sam’s brain. 

"He fell the first time because he knew Heaven was wrong. And when he was forced to become an angel again, he immediately rebelled. He's been cut off this whole time: I know we mentioned that at some point. You know what that means?" Dean presses on. "It means he's royally screwed, and he did it for us. For humans. For you." He takes a deep breath, because yeah, that’s true, but it’s not the whole truth. "For me." Something chokes in his chest at saying it out loud. "For me, Sammy. He gave it all up for me. His grace is low at the best of times, and his own people are chasing him around the world with a kill-on-sight order. For me."

Sam stays quiet after that, so Dean leaves him with one parting shot.

"For the record," Dean adds, quietly, "he really was human the first time. Not a speck of angel in him. And when I thought he was dead, I couldn't breathe. Not because he's an angel: it's because he's Cas."

Sam swallows, and looks down at his hands. He looks tired and small and shaky. He opens his mouth like he thinks he's gonna say he's sorry, but then he closes it. Somehow, that makes it more real.

It doesn't make Dean feel any better, but it makes him more sure that it's really his brother he's looking at, right now.

"You wanna call Ruby?" Dean says, and the words are bitter in his mouth. He doesn't know what he's doing here, but what the fuck else is new. "Give her an update? Fine. But don't fucking fool yourself that she's doin' it for anything but to save her own skin. She was honest about that with you. Be honest 'bout it with yourself."

Yeah, Dean knows that's a pretty big glass house he's throwing stones out of. Doesn't make it any less true, though.

He turns away, because he can't stand the way Sam's looking at him. He's almost to the door when Sam speaks up again, and his voice is a teenager's, a college kid's, someone who should never have had to live this fucking life. "I have to do this, Dean," Sam says, his voice shaking. "How else are we supposed to stop it? There's no other way. We don't have another way."

Dean's lips thin, and he feels his shoulders bow. "We might." He sits down in front of his little brother, and slowly tells the story of their lunch date with Death.

It’d be a good story, if not for the fact that it’s all they’ve got to stop the Apocalypse with.

“You think the scythe might be able to kill Lilith.” Sam's quiet for a while after that, folding and unfolding a page of the book in his lap. "What if he wants a deal?"

"Then we find another way." Dean bites his lip after he finishes saying it. He knows they don’t have another way, right now. He knows the whole house is hoping no one has to sell a soul to save the planet, because when it comes right down to it, Dean's not sure he'll be able to say ‘no.’ And he knows that Cas and Bobby see it, too.

From the way Sam’s looking at him, so does Sam.

"One more night, Sammy," Dean says to him, pushing himself back to his feet. "Then you, me, Bobby and Cas, we'll summon this guy and…" he sighs. "We'll see."

He's about to leave when there's another little "Dean?" behind him.

He turns. He'll always turn, for Sam.

Sam's looking at his hands, at the rumpled-up paperback in them. "I want you to be happy," he says. "I really do. I just... it was... it was so sudden, and so weird. I never thought you’d keep something like that from me. You know?"

It's not an 'I'm sorry.' Dean wouldn't believe an 'I'm sorry' now, anyway. And the fact is—Sammy's not wrong. He breathes out. "Yeah," he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. "For me, too."

"He's alright, though. Cas. Kind of strange and nerdy," Sam says.

Since he is, that brings a little tight smile to Dean's lips. "Yeah, that's my angel," he says. And he and Sam actually look at each other before he goes. Sam doesn't try to stop him, and doesn't try to go for the door.

Dean trudges back upstairs and Cas does that thing where he moves an inch over in his sofa spot to provide Dean with his own space, like there wasn't plenty of space there before. Dean takes it anyway. Cas is a little stiff beside him, but his gaze is soft and warm. Dean looks back at him and nods.

They spend the rest of the day cross-referencing crossroads demons, deals, and how to summon someone specific. Before they never had a name, just some luck and a picture to bury. 

It turns out that knowing Crowley's name makes a lot of the other stuff moot. They might not even need a crossroads with the right summoning. There is, unfortunately, not enough time to work that out. Instead, they plan and pack as much holy water as they can carry, and enough spray paint to draw ten times the number of devil's traps than they might need.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Not quite gloomy, but still, it's just depressing enough to drive Dean a little crazy. Despite the fact that the day hasn't been all that physical, Dean is exhausted by 11, yawning hard enough to crack his jaw. Bobby takes the book out of his lap and sends him up to bed with a whack to the back of the head. Cas follows without a word.

Dean pauses at the open door to their room. "Hey, don't you want to help out Bobby some more?"

Cas keeps going even though Dean's stopped. Dean doesn't quite yelp as Cas muscles him in—Jesus, he does kind of forget that he's solid, for a little nerdy guy—and closes the door.

"Okay," Dean says. "Uh, what?"

"I'm sorry," Cas says, firmly. "I shouldn't have been confrontational. I don't... I shouldn't use our, our connection as..." he wrinkles his nose and sighs, a little. "I don't know what to call it. Fight fodder? Especially when I know you're taking care of Sam."

Jesus. Dean's already half-forgotten their little tiff when they got home. He raises a hand to touch Cas's cheek; he's getting better at being the one who touches, not just the one who gets touched. He chuckles. "Sweetheart. I was mad and bein' an ass, too. If you're not an ass back, I'm probably not gonna listen."

Cas squints at him. "Is that supposed to be comforting?"

Dean rubs his thumb over Cas's cheek, enjoying the prickle of stubble against the pad of his finger. "Probably not." He sighs and gently sways into the warmth of Cas's body. "I'm not good at this, Cas. I haven't ever really tried to be. So if I get snippy and walk away, it's not—I'm not a fun guy to be around when I'm mad. I know that."

Cas folds his arms around him, running his hands down the planes of Dean's back, and pressing just hard enough to rub at the tight muscles under his fingertips. "I've never done this, either," Cas says, quietly. "But I've wanted to." His voice gets small, right then, small and lost. "Jimmy and Amelia... I've watched them for more than a decade. I've seen what they have. I know it's not always perfect, but they know how to be angry and then come back together. I’d like to figure that out. Forgive me?"

Dean sighs, warm tingles running down his spine at the firm touches. He hurts a little for the Cas that lived that life: the Cas whose brother was the only one in his family to stand up for him when shit got real; the Cas who had to sit there and live with this nice thing he was sure he wasn't even going to get.

"Hey, no. There's nothing to forgive," Dean says, suddenly achingly tired. "No one needs forgiveness for his own damned sins, not right now: not you, not Sam, not Bobby. No one. We're all doing the best we can."

Cas reaches up and settles his hand on Dean's bicep—not quite touching the mark. Him avoiding it right now is, Dean's pretty sure, intentional, because weird things happen to both their brains whenever he has his hand on it. "That goes for you, too, Dean," he says, gently. "We are all doing the best we can, and you have value, too." His eyes narrow, just slightly. "That means that if you are contemplating something stupid and suicidal in the face of all this... well, don't."

"Hey," Dean protests. "Thought you couldn't read my mind in here."

Cas lifts just one eyebrow. "I can't."

Okay, so. Check and mate, goes to Cas.

That forces a soft chuckle out of Dean, though, and he leans in, gets his chin situated over Cas's shoulder. "Hey, uh... I think Sam's gonna be okay to come out tomorrow."

"That's good," Cas says. He sounds like he means it.

"He might still be an ass to you. Don't smite him."

"I commanded a flight of angels and defended a Ph.D, Dean. I assure you, Sam can't offend me."

"You'd be surprised," Dean says, but he's smiling and it feels real on his face. He kisses his favorite spot on Cas's neck, the one behind his jaw, where it's soft and warm. Before he can do much else, he yawns again.

"You should sleep," Cas murmurs into his hair.

Dean agrees, but he also doesn't want to let go of Cas either. "Stay." He mumbles the words into Cas's skin, feeling his own face heat at it. "Let’s go to bed."

"Of course," Cas agrees, but he holds Dean tight, first. It's like time stands still; their breathing syncs up and they're slipping into one person, almost, two halves of a whole. Where Cas curves in, Dean expands, and so on. 

Eventually, Cas peels away, and in the quiet they've carved out, he helps Dean out of his flannel and his boots and jeans. He follows out of his own clothes while Dean watches, already half tucked away in the bed with the cover sheet pulled over his waist.

"I like watching you get undressed," Dean says. He sort of regrets it the moment it's out of his mouth, because shit, that's a weird thing to say.

Cas blinks at him, and tilts his head. "Thank... you?" he says, and looks down at the t-shirt of Dean's he's wearing. "I suppose I should have brought some of my shirts from Jimmy's, rather than always borrowing yours," he adds, a little ruefully. "I didn't think. My other clothes never need to get washed."

"Maybe when we go back," Dean says, sinking comfortably down into the pillows. He's wide awake a second later when he realizes what he's thinking about.

A future. Not just hunting, but a future with Sam and Cas. Going to see Cas's brother and sister-in-law and niece again. Planning on it.

None of that's gonna happen if they don't fucking keep Lucifer back in his cage.

But Cas slips into bed beside Dean and plops his cheek on Dean's shoulder with the most contented little grunt of a sigh as he turns on his side. Dean's arm drifts around his shoulders. He's warm, and smells soft and good, and Dean can already tell he's gonna be there when Dean wakes up tomorrow. Which Dean would never ask for. No matter how much he wants it.

And that shit with demons and deals and Lucifer? That's gonna be a problem for tomorrow, not tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ami:** Yep, the ball is really rolling now and shit's about to get real. Having fun yet?
> 
> Citation:  
> 'Go to the ant, O sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise; without having any chief, officer, or ruler, she prepares her bread in summer and gathers her food in harvest.'  
> — Proverbs 6:6, New International Version


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Ami:** I think we've all guessed that another fan favorite is incoming. Have fun! We're fast approaching what would be considered the last 2 or 3 eps of the season.

Dean wakes up to a hand slowly stroking his hair, and a slowly-breathing body under his cheek. They must have shifted sometime during the night. Dean's on board with the new setup though: it lets his hands trace the subtle contours of Cas's stomach.

He feels good; he always does, on the rare occasions when he and Cas spend the night together. The nightmares are held at bay and Dean seems to find some sort of new level of relaxation that makes sleep extra-restful. It's apparently not just the awesome sex though, which is kinda nice.

Dean can tell by the quality of light peeking through the threadbare curtains that it’s still early. Cas is warm and comfortable, and all Dean wants is to be just a tiny bit more selfish, just for a little while longer. He wants to keep his eyes closed and his nose buried in the soft cotton wrapped around Cas's chest.

Beneath his cheek, Cas sighs. It's a slow, plaintive sound. "It's a nice thought," Cas rumbles quietly.

"You reading my mind, Cas?" Dean mutters into his t-shirt, with a soft chuckle.

"No," Cas grumbles, "but I'm sure I was thinking the same thing."

Dean laughs louder and opens his eyes the rest of the way, shimmying up to place a kiss on Cas's neck. He eyes his angel's Adam's apple with interest as Cas lets his head fall back to give him better access.

Dean nibbles. Just a little.

"We shouldn't," Cas sighs, regretfully. He doesn't exactly sound like he means it.

Dean smiles against his skin and pulls himself a little further over Cas, half-overlapping. "We shouldn't... what?"

Cas arches his neck, revealing one long tempting strip of skin. "Take two lovely, pleasurable hours to wring each other thoroughly out," Cas starts roughly, and Dean shudders a little at the very idea: holy fuck, two hours? What the hell is Cas thinking about that’s gonna take two _hours?_ "And then go downstairs freshly showered and pink-faced…” he pauses, while Dean’s still holding his breath, “...and have _everyone_ know exactly what we were doing."

Dean gets turned off so quickly it feels like he loses blood pressure briefly. 

His head thunks into Cas’s shoulder. "That…" he grumbles into a mouthful of t-shirt, "was not cool."

Cas chuckles and shrugs underneath him. "Bobby Singer is an ornery bastard who strikes me as the type to be very patient in his revenge."

Bobby is exactly that, so Dean can't even deny it. He rears up and bites the bare patch at the base of Cas's neck a little harder than he would otherwise. Cas actually yelps, and Dean finds himself snickering into Cas's skin.

"You're an asshole," Dean tells him, "and I'm kinda into it."

"It's your own fault," Cas says, looping a calf through Dean's. "You started it."

So maybe Dean's still got a sort of dumb smile on when they do finally get up and get dressed, watching the sleepy ruffles peel away and the angel come back out in his suit and trench coat. "I can make breakfast," Cas offers, "while you and Bobby get Sam."

Dean has just about managed to get the goofy expression off his face by the time he's got fresh jeans and a t-shirt on. But it's short-lived, because on walking into the kitchen, he comes face to face with Cas cooking an entire pan of bacon. Holy crap, he might just have fallen in love all over again. 

Dean is nose-first in a mug of coffee and a plate full of bacon and eggs (and he needs to thank Amelia for teaching Cas the secret to eggs) by the time Sam stumbles his way to the table.

Dean doesn't even look up at first: he's too intent on carefully tasting the eggs set out for him, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. (Cas also dropped hot sauce by his plate, because he’s effing _perfect_. There’s a good dash of pepper in the eggs, too.) Sam pulls up a chair, but Dean doesn't quite catch on until after Bobby sits down. The sounds of cooking continue, and then pause. 

Cas comes over with two plates in hand, one loaded with bacon and eggs and one with just one strip and a few spoonfuls, and puts the big one in front of Sam. Dean scooches his chair over a few inches. Cas sets his plate next to Dean’s and sits, with a perfectly respectable amount of space between them.

Until Dean kicks out a leg and wraps an ankle around Cas’s. Cas smiles into his bite of eggs, but says nothing.

Sam stares.

"You too good for bacon, now, Sam?" Bobby growls, taking a nearly vicious bite of a piece. It snaps between his teeth like good bacon should. "Or to say good morning?"

Dean looks up again and blinks at that. They're not exactly the "good morning" type of family. Sam's pasty deer-in-headlights look says he's thinking exactly the same.

In the awkward silence, Cas finishes up his tiny breakfast and slowly pushes back from the table. "I'll bring Anna something to eat," he says, standing up, and busies himself putting together another small plate.

"Anna?" Sam says. "The angel in Chuck's books?" His eyes flick to Dean, and Dean feels himself turning red.

Oh. Yeah. Right.

Cas smiles, thin and small. "The same."

Sam blinks, and blinks again. "Angels eat?" he says to Cas.

Dean fights the urge to roll his eyes. Cas just did, didn’t he? But Sam’s just finished detox, can’t exactly blame him for being a little out of it.

"We can, though I think many angels don’t enjoy it. I, personally, find it comforting, and the lower our grace gets, the more sustenance our vessels require. Her grace is already low, and if she hasn't been cut off yet, she will be," Cas answers, neutrally. "So better she get used to it now. The molecules can taste very unpleasant if one's not accustomed."

Sam seems to be having trouble processing. Even after Cas steps out, it takes him a few long, awkward minutes punctuated only by chewing before he asks, "So, uh, he... cooks?"

Bobby snorts. "Who d'ya think made yesterday's pancakes? Certainly wasn't me."

Dean shrugs. "He did spend over thirty years as a human. He picked up some skills." He takes another awesome bite of perfectly-cooked bacon. He suspects maybe Cas's angel mojo helps, even as faded as it is in here: knowing how it should taste and feel as a human, plus angel senses, probably means Cas knows exactly when to take the bacon off the heat. 

He’s never said anything about ‘unpleasant molecules’ before, though. Huh.

Sam appears to accept the information for what it is. He goes back to slowly and methodically eating his breakfast for a few more minutes before frowning again. "Is Anna not in the house?"

"Root cellar." Bobby nods towards the door, chugging the last of his coffee. "No angel wards on that."

Sam puts his fork down. "You didn’t take the wards down? Then how is Castiel—Cas—able to come inside?"

Dean grimaces. The thing of it is, Sam's great at this shit: putting clues together and asking the right questions. The demon blood didn’t really interfere with that, so much as made Sam kind of willfully blind to things that didn't fit his own narrative. 

Without the blood and stuff distracting Sam, well, Dean's gonna have to get used to explaining a few more things now and again.

"Speaking of," he pushes back from the table "I should let him back in." He winks at Bobby and heads out. He hears Bobby sigh at his back, but Bobby also starts to explain as he leaves the room.

Cas is already waiting by the door, leaning against the wall with his head tipped back and one hand in the pocket of his coat. The empty plate is in his other hand.

"You could've knocked," Dean says. He reaches into Cas's pocket and rummages for his fingers. It gets him a little smile.

"I thought you might be more comfortable talking for a little bit without me there. I can be a wet blanket at the best of times," Cas explains.

Dean scoffs. "Dude, just start talking about Mars or... or Babylon or something and Sammy will be too busy picking your brains to be mad." He's only half-kidding. "How's Anna?"

Cas smiles ruefully. "Recovering. She doesn't like food much, but she'll eat it." He cocks his head. "Should she be involved in the... the summoning?" he muses.

"No," Dean replies, automatically. It's not rational at first, but after he takes a second to check more than his gut, really, it's not a good idea anyway. "Let's not give anyone who calls themselves ‘king of anything-related-to-Hell’ more information than they need."

Cas nods in agreement, but the tiny smile on his face gets knowing and Dean ignores it politely. "C'mon," he says and tugs on Cas’s fingers, gently walking Cas through the perimeter. Cas doesn't appear all that fazed by the transition anymore.

Dean forgets to untangle their hands before returning to the kitchen. Sam gives their fingers curious eyes, but the burning need to prove something wrong isn't there. Mostly. Well, maybe there’s a bit of suspicion, but the biggest difference is that Sam stows it for later. He asks, instead, about the plans they've made for the thing with Crowley.

It turns out, summoning the King of the Crossroads isn't going to be as tough as it seems like it should be. Probably because they've got the guy’s name. Also, summoning crossroads demons is old hat for them by now.

Their lives are so fucked up.

Sammy's still looking shaky, though, and Dean doesn't like his color. "Maybe we should wait..."

"I'm pretty sure the apocalypse isn't waiting for anyone," Sam answers. "I'm fine."

Cas sighs.

Sam studies him, eyes narrowed.

Cas, this time, stares right back. "If Dean said he was 'fine,'" he flicks up his air quotes, "would you be concerned?"

"Hey!" Dean protests.

Sam blinks twice. Then says, "Heh."

It's only now that Dean realizes he's made a mistake. Sam and Cas will absolutely team up against him if they think it's the right thing to do. That's just unfair. Dean narrows his eyes. "You gonna keel over or not?"

Sam's shoulders droop a little and he rubs the hint of mountain man he’s got going on his chin. "80/20? Depending on how this goes."

Well. At least that's honest. Dean stares at him for a long time—possibly too long. Cas's habits might be rubbing off on him. Heh. Rubbing off.

Sam's face sours. "Did you just think about sex?"

"No!" Dean snaps.

"Yes," Cas corrects, smirk firmly in place. “I don’t even need to read your mind to know that.”

Dean mock-gasps and turns to Cas, jabbing a finger at him. "Betrayal!"

Cas crosses his arms. "You can't be mad at me," he says, smugly. "I made breakfast."

This time, Sam laughs out loud. "He might have you there."

Dean gapes, then crosses his arms back at Cas, fighting back a smile. "That's it, I'm returning you for a less sassy angel."

Cas has his mouth open, and from the way his eyebrows are high and his eyes are laughing, Dean's pretty sure he's about to get zinged but good.

"Jesus fucking Christ, enough with the flirting!" Bobby barks, interrupting them. "Two idjits was bad enough, now there's three of you eggin’ each other on!"

"Sorry," all three of them say together. Then they all blink.

Dean laughs, because Bobby cowing a several-millennia-old angel with one sentence and a glare is both hysterical and so perfectly _Bobby_ that something rights itself in Dean's world.

Bobby's place is bookended by two old, defunct farms. They’ve been useful for various supernatural misadventures. In this case, there's an old barn that's mostly scaffolding and a second floor, sitting right off the angle of a set of crossroads. 

Bobby gets started on the devil's trap while Cas paints on a few runes here and there. Mostly for structural integrity and some general safety. At least, that's what Dean overhears when Sam asks, and Cas explains.

Dean has to stop and smile, some tiny little bit of fear letting go as he watches Sam, first, making an effort, and then not needing to make any effort at all. Dean was right, they're both nerds, and about a lot of the same things. He can see Sam practically itching to take notes while Cas lectures about something to do with Enochian etymology in an oddly casual tone. It’s sort of interesting, though, and Cas is keeping Sam’s attention with ease. Bobby’s, too, now that Dean looks over.

He wonders if Cas wants to still be a university professor after. If there is an after.

Bobby kicks Dean in the ankle before he can go too far down the rabbit hole.

Yeah. Okay. Gotta survive now and, y'know, prevent the apocalypse for that shit to happen. Besides, what the hell is Dean gonna do if Cas does go back to teaching, anyway? It's not like Dean's smart enough for school, or knows how to do anything but hunt. And he saw the way Jimmy looked at him—

Right. Apocalypse. Shit.

Cas looks at him, a frown wrinkling his forehead, and this time, Dean looks away.

"We ready?" Bobby demands, bowl at the go in the middle of the devil trap, book open in Sam's hand.

Dean takes up the knife and cuts his palm, deep. The sting of it is familiar and ancient, the blood welling up hot. "Ready," he says.

Unlike the usual summoning of a crossroads demon where they bury a few personal items and get a potluck of demons, calling up a specific demon is more complex, and much more likely to land on the bullseye. The downside? Apparently they have to show, but they can show in their own sweet time. And who’s shocked that the King of the Crossroads is gonna be an asshole about it?

By an hour later, Sam is slumped against the car, Bobby is leaning against an exposed beam in the old barn and Cas and Dean have drifted together under an anemic-looking tree.

"Well, isn't this an auspicious group of people. I'm almost flattered." The accent is British and the voice is just this side of oily. The man is well-dressed all in black. Dean's no clothing connoisseur, but he can tell the tie is silk.

"Two Winchesters—" he winks at Dean "—love your work by the way, you're now part of the training montage—a barely functional alcoholic and… an... angel?” But he says that like there’s some sort of a question about it, and turns to look at Cas more closely. “Well, aren't you a curious one."

Bobby steps forward. "Crowley."

"Charmed." He bows, tipping an invisible hat. "Also, boys, you'll need to do better than a devil's trap spray-painted in the dirt to keep me." The wind picks up, and there’s something hot and dry and stinging about it, like the air off a forest fire.

"Cool it, rock star," Bobby says, dryly. "We just wanna talk."

Crowley puts a hand to his heart. "Then I’m sure you'll let me go out of the goodness of your own hearts?"

"Yeaaah," says Bobby.

"Maybe," says Sam.

"Probably not," says Cas.

Dean's mouth falls open. They all turn to look at him. 

Cas shrugs. "I don't see the point in lying to him. He's a crossroads demon. And if he _is_ the king of the crossroads demons, he knows better than to believe anything an angel says to him."

They really need to have a talk with Cas about sticking to the plan. Dean wipes a hand over his face.

Crowley, though, doesn't look worried. Which, considering that pretty much every demon they've ever seen wets their panties a little at the sight of an angel, either says bad things about this Crowley guy or _really_ bad things about the state of Cas's grace. 

In fact, he appears... sort of amused. "An _honest_ angel,” he muses, with a chuckle, shaking his head. “Oh, choir boy, you must be very, very young."

Cas raises a shoulder, not looking or sounding at all concerned. "No. I’m just not a very good angel."

Of all the things, that seems to stop Crowley, briefly. He squints in Cas's direction before widening his attention back to all four of them. "Well, let's get on with it, lads. Chop chop, what’s your question, there's an orgy somewhere I'm sure I need to be a part of."

They all stare at him. Dean sees Sam’s mouth open and close a little. It can’t be _that_ easy.

"What?" Crowley shrugs. "You four have both Heaven _and_ Hell in a tizzy. Color me curious about what you want from little old me."

Dean pushes away from the tree and gets as close as he's willing to the edges of the trap. "A little birdy," behind him, Cas swallows a bark of mirth, "told me that you have something that might be useful."

"Oh really?" Crowley puts his hands in his pockets and purses his lips. "I don't know where Lilith is, and I'm not willing to put my ass on the line to figure it out, not even for a soul. Or even a few of ‘em. Not a good deal." He stares at them, shaking his head as if amazed at their stupidity. "You don’t really think a demon is going to help you, do you? Are you mad? After Lucifer breaks out, any demon that was fool enough to try and stop that glorious event will be the first of our kind to die screaming."

Dean feels it the moment Cas latches onto something interesting, and it doesn't take long for him to say something.

"The first?" Cas says, casually.

Crowley chooses silence. That seems unusual for him. Dean crosses his arms and waits.

“Yeah,” Bobby drawls, scratching his beard. “That is what he said. Weird slip of the tongue, ain’t it?”

Sam glances over at Cas. They seem to exchange about three quarters of a look between them, and Dean can almost feel the area heat up from the brain power that's steaming off the cogs in Sammy’s head right now. "Cas," Sam asks, "Did you know Lucifer at all? When you were... you know." He flicks a thumb in the direction of the sky.

Cas doesn't keep up 'casual' real well. He curls his head back on his neck, and considers. "I knew him," he tells the clouds overhead. "Not particularly well. He didn't bother to interact with my flight. Truly, I have to say that Lucifer didn't seem to like much of anyone."

"But... not a fan of humans, right?"

"No, not at all," Cas agrees. "He had some... choice things to say about human souls. About how they were base, and easily twisted."

"Oh, really?" Sam straightens and looks interested. "So what happens when, say, a human soul goes to _hell_ , and gets twisted past redemption? I can’t imagine that he—"

" _Alright_ , you wankers have made your bloody point. What?" Crowley snaps, crossing his arms. He never looked that scary to begin with, but all of a sudden, the little guy in a fancy suit with a hairline pulling back from his forehead actually looks... little.

"Death's old scythe," Dean says. “Where is it?”

Crowley actually rocks back on his heels and looks surprised. "Oh, that old thing? Well, well. This is a surprise. I was sure no one knew I had that.” He runs his thumb back and forth over his upper lip. “Yes, that pretty little thing can kill just about anything. One problem, though," Crowley continues, casually. He seems more businesslike now: less show, more get-shit-done. "No one can use it. Death doesn’t like anyone playing with his toys.”

Dean’s gut drops out from under him, but Cas frowns. “No one?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “No, Feathers, there’s the child lock of all time on that little piece. No one’s using it without having worn the ring. Or, in a pinch, the nod from the big guy himself.”

Oh. Well, okay, then. Dean’s tight shoulders drop back down, and he breathes out again. 

“Which he would… never… give…" Crowley words slow down to a crawl. He stares at all four of them, and all of their relaxation, horror dawning slowly on his round face. He pulls his hands back out of his pockets like he’s not sure what he wants to do with them. "Are you bloody _kidding me?_ "

Dean shrugs. "I'm a popular guy these days. Everyone wants to have lunch with me."

"Had... lunch?" Crowley crosses himself. Cas squints. Okay, Dean will admit that that gesture’s really bizarre in an actual demon; don’t those guys flinch when someone says ‘Christo?’ 

Dean nods.

"With you?"

Dean nods again.

"And me." Cas raises his hand up beside his ear, and Dean absolutely knows he's imitating a student.

Crowley stares at them some more. "You met Death. _The_ Death. And he just gave you permission to use one of his scythes?"

Dean shrugs. "It was more cryptic than that, but he gave us a nice big ‘I’d find it helpful if you grabbed it,’ yes." Kinda.

Crowley rocks forward onto his toes, the smirk curving up the edges of his lips. "It won't work on Lucifer, you know, pretties. Got to drop a much bigger house on that Wicked to make that work."

Cas's head tilts to the side. Sam frowns a little.

"I don't even wanna know why a demon knows Broadway musicals," Bobby mutters.

All of them turn to look at him. Bobby, if it's possible, maybe actually turns a little red.

"Isn't everyone in this bar such a darling?" Crowley laughs, and shifts from side to side like he’s square dancing. "You didn't really think those tunes came from _Heaven_ , did you? Tsk."

"Not the goddamned—" Dean shakes his head and squeezes his hand, where the blood's starting to clot up already. "And what if we said we're trying to keep Lucifer from ever coming out?"

The amusement leaves Crowley's face in a harsh rush. 

What's left behind is cold and hard and ancient. The smile he wears—it wears—is small and mean. He laughs, and it's like the sound of tires blowing out on the highway going eighty. And for the first time, Dean maybe, maybe, understands why this guy calls himself the King of the Crossroads. 

"Oh, you Winchesters,” he sneers, and his eyes flash red. “Always think you can get out of the prophecy. Don't you know yet, darlings? You _are_ the prophecy."

Dean shares a look with Cas, who mostly shrugs: he'll follow Dean's lead. "Well, that's the thing, isn't it Crowley? Haven't you been paying attention?" Dean opens his arms wide, as if to gesture at the current scene they find themselves in. "Prophecy's gone off the rails. Why do you think Heaven is so bent out of shape?"

“Heaven’s always bent out of shape, sweetcheeks,” Crowley answers. “All those halos with rods up their asses, and not in the fun way.”

Cas steps up beside him. He's better for the big picture universe stuff anyway. "Heaven is flawed,” he admits. “But Death said it himself: we've subverted prophecy enough that a new path has formed. It's the only reason he found us of any interest at all."

Crowley turns to look at Cas, _really_ look at him, and Dean gets the impression that Cas is letting him see something that other people can’t—though what exactly that is, Dean’s not exactly sure. "Well," Crowley eventually drawls. "You _are_ interesting. All that human soul wafting around you. You're right, you aren't a very good example of an angel, are you"

The little man walks right up to the edges of the devil's trap—leans up and in, and it's, creepily, like watching a kid press his nose to a storefront window display. And Dean, well, Dean has to say he doesn't like it much when Crowley's eyes slide towards him. Just his red eyes, just his gaze—nothing else about him moves.

"Oh. Ohhhh," he chortles, and the movement and laughter are back, the cold alienness gone like it was never there. "My, my. Feathers, haven't you been a bad, bad little angel!" And he tosses his head back and laughs. "Putting your dirty hands all over a Winchester's soul! What would your daddy say?"

Alright, so Cas's eyes flare with silver and light at that, and he moves so fast towards the trap that for a second Dean doesn't think he's gonna get between them in time.

(He doesn't. Sam does.)

"Hey!" Sam barks, over Cas’s shoulder.

"My Father," Cas growls, but he allows himself to be led away, "is miffed, but curious."

Crowley pauses yet again and takes a step towards Cas. He must’ve forgotten exactly where he stands in the trap, though, because he crashes into the edge and has to step back. "You're telling me you _spoke to God_?" he says in something that’s half a growl, half a screech.

Dean steps up to within inches of the border and smirks. "Let's just say we got a message."

Crowley gives each one of them a look that says how much he hates all of them, and given better circumstances, he'd be tryin to kill them. It's an expression Dean's much more comfortable with. They stay like that, frozen, until finally Crowley throws his hands up. "Alright, fine,” he growls. “But if I get killed, I'm coming after you lot personally."

“It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last,” Sam says, with a certainty that should really bother Dean. But it doesn’t, ‘cause, well… Sam’s right.

Crowley snaps his fingers, and a long scroll of parchment appears in his hands, dribbling down to the dirt floor under him. "Now,” he produces a pen and clicks it dramatically. “Who shall I make this out to?"

Dean's about to open his big fat mouth when Bobby says, "What d'you mean by that, exactly?" with his eyes narrowed.

Crowley looks up and arches his eyebrows. "Well, you can't possibly expect me to just _give_ you the thing, did you?" He clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “What do you take me for, an angel?”

(Maybe they should have let Cas just stab him.)

Sam exclaims, "But it's to _your_ benefit if we stop Lucifer! You don't really want him out any more than we do!"

"Moose," Crowley says, rolling his eyes, "What I want or don't want has nothing to do with the price of peas in Perdition. I am a crossroads demon. I make deals." He smiles and flaps the parchment. "So who wants to deal?"

Sam steps up faster than anyone can stop him. His face is white and set. "Me."

Oh, fuck no, no _way_ Dean’s standing for that.

Crowley looks mildly disappointed. "Sorry, Moose, you still have a no-go order on your bright and shinies. A contract for your soul goes to Hell, bells will ring, lights will shine where no lights should be shining, and my neck will be on the chopping block."

Sam looks like someone slapped him in the face, blinking rapidly and jerking forward like he wants to break the edge of the trap. He stops himself just in time. Dean sort of gets that, because he kind of feels like Crowley slapped him, too. Hell wants Sam in the game that bad, what the fuck. 

Crowley turns to Dean. "And just to cut to the chase, your soul has a very pretty angelic tramp stamp decorating it. Would probably invalidate the entire contract, or maybe blow someone up. Anyway, it's technically no longer yours to give away." He points his thumb at Cas. "Ditto for him, really. I'm actually not sure what he is, anymore, but whatever glue it is holding him together would gum up the works really good."

Dean has no idea what the fuck the little man’s talking about. But before he opens his mouth to ask, he hears, "I'll do it."

They all turn to look at Bobby. Bobby hasn’t moved from his casual lean against a support pole yet. "Oh please.” He rolls his eyes. “I figured out it was gonna be me hours ago. What's one old man’s soul compared to the world?"

Jesus fucking Christ. Didn’t they have a goddamned conversation about _no one_ selling their souls? Was no one listening?

Crowley turns to study him. "Hmm." He looks Bobby up and down, and he doesn't look impressed. "A little..." he wobbles his finger around, "crunchy, isn't it? That soul of yours. Good chance Hell will get it anyway."

This time, it's Cas who puts out an arm in front of both Dean and Sam, whipping up fast enough that the sleeves of his trenchcoat snap. Dean's a little surprised Sam puts up with being stopped. Dean almost doesn't.

"No," Dean hisses.

Bobby doesn't look impressed, either. "If you really thought that, ya little toad, you wouldn't even be botherin' to bargain. So what's it you really want?"

Crowley scoffs, but, a little to Dean's surprise, the supposed King of the damned Crossroads— this squirrely little Brit in a suit too expensive for him—actually... shrugs?

(Damn. Angels _and_ demons. Bobby's still got it.)

"Free passage," he says. "If, you know, Hell freezes over and you morons actually win. You just might be stupid enough to."

Bobby finally moves from his spot, casually approaching Crowley with the confidence of a guy who knows he's got something someone else really wants. Dean’s walked like that into bars and pool halls. Bobby shoves his hands into his pockets, and mimics Crowley's posture. "Sweeten the pot."

Crowley raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me? Did I not hear correctly, am I not the lynch pin in this operation?"

"Eh." Bobby shrugs. "Maybe. But you also know that a free pass from us is worth a helluva a lot more than you’re makin’ it out to be. You think you’re gonna pull one over on us now because you got us over a barrel? Think again."

Crowley, though, doesn’t seem shaken up by that. In fact, he even smirks a little, like this is fun for him. "How about some healing?” he offers. “I bet your joints have had a hard life. I can practically smell the arthritis on you. And is that some spinal stenosis?"

Bobby coughs, and then hacks off a loogie to the side while Dean watches, his eyebrows up. Crowley crinkles up his nose, looking grossed-out. Sure, Dean's made deals with crossroads demons, and he's killed one or two, but he's never done this bargaining shit before.

"Uh-huh," Bobby drawls, sounding unimpressed. "Wow, you really know how to low-ball a guy, huh? Whatever happened to you guys offering shit like mansions and miracles and dates with Tory & Dean?"

Okay, that's really weirdly specific. Dean exchanges a wide-eyed look with Sam. Cas makes a small, gasping noise that might be a laugh, or a sound of horror.

Crowley narrows his eyes and in a flat voice all out of keeping with the Briticism, says, "Mansions. Miracles. Tory & Dean. Because I’m a generous demon, I'll even throw in the arthritis for free?"

Bobby rolls his eyes and pushes off the bolster he was leaning on. "Yeah, I think maybe we're done here."

Sam makes a tiny choking sound deep in his throat.

Crowley opens up his hands and throws them up in the air. "Fine, _fine_ , you giant bearded boob!” he snaps. “What is it that you _want_?!"

Bobby eyes him consideringly, pursing his lips and making a show of going over options in his own mind, ticking his fingers in front of him. Finally, he answers, "Tit for tat."

"You don't need me to find a good donkey show, you pervert, but if you're looking for company…" Crowley winks at him.

Okay, _gross_. Dean guesses that Crowley is playing the odds and assumes Bobby has some stereotype in him, but that just shows that Crowley isn't quite as all-knowing as he'd like them to think.

"That's sweet, precious." Bobby winks right back, and wow, that’s even weirder. "But no. I meant, if we win, then I get my soul back.” He grins, showing teeth through his beard. “It's not like you'd really be losing, what with Lucifer being stuck in his cage and not, y’know, killing y’all. And Lilith, I bet she’s been bad for the deal-makin’ business, right, what with all the signs and the mayhem and all? Well, she’s gonna end this-all as nothing more than demon paste on the floor."

Of all the things that Dean expected to see in his life, he didn't expect to see the demon who calls himself the King of the Crossroads stumped. (Why the King of the Crossroads is wearing some kind of British douche is still up in the air.)

"You want... you want me to give it back?!" Crowley splutters, leaning back from the barrier like he thinks Bobby might be contagious. "Are you mental? That's not a deal, that's a bloomin' loan!"

'Bloomin' is about the most wimpy curse word Dean's ever fucking heard.

"A loan _is_ a kind of deal," Cas muses, his hands in his pockets and his eyes thoughtful, now. "And much more relevant to mutually assured destruction if not kept."

"I don't want to hear about ‘mutually assured destruction’ from a fallen angel wearing a human's handprints on his arse," Crowley growls.

Cas smiles, faintly. "Jealous? You did seem rather admiring of Dean."

Oh _kay_ , wow, Dean never thought he'd say this, but the dick-waving is getting out of hand. "Dunno, sounds like a pretty good deal to me. What 'bout you, Sammy?"

Sam, even as white and limp as he's looking, manages to pull up a pretty damned good smirk. "I'm willing to bet he hates Lucifer more than he hates the idea of letting one crunchy soul go... and wouldn't Lilith being a smear on the floor be, like, our bonus addition?"

Dean shrugs, trying for casual so hard his teeth hurt. "Sounds like a hell of a bonus to me." He feels like he can see the end of this tunnel. There’s just barely a hint of an outline in the darkness, and Dean fights with all of his might not to take it and run.

He can literally feel Cas trying to comfort him, the warm static of something brushing against his sides and back. It calms some of Dean’s anxiety about things going their way for once. Because things just don’t _go_ their way.

"Fine," Crowley finally bites out, after an extended staring contest with Bobby. "Your soul for Death's castoffs, to be returned with all proper paperwork followed—assuming Lilith becomes demon paste, and you stop fiddling with the lock on Lucifer’s cage"

Bobby nods in agreement and Crowley takes out an ornate fountain pen and amends the contract for long minutes. "There.” Finally, he puts the pen away and rolls the scroll back up. “Now, how about a kiss for daddy?"

"Um, no," Sam says, even as Bobby steps forward and Dean prepares to test his gag reflex, because fucking _yikes,_ at least Dean didn't have to do that when he made his deal. "Give it here."

Crowley stops, halfway into putting the scroll into his jacket pocket. "What?"

"Look, if anything is _that_ long, I'm not trusting you to not have slipped other clauses in it." Sam gestures. "Give it here."

Bobby looks sour, like he's mad he didn't think of that.

Dean doesn't know if it makes him feel better or worse that when Sam reads through the whole thing—it might as well be Greek, and for a second Dean thinks it actually _is_ Greek until he catches sight of bits of Latin through it—it’s close to what they agreed upon. Pretty much the only thing that's different is that Crowley put "best faith effort" when it comes to returning Bobby's soul.

Oh, and he also put in a fucking _invulnerability_ clause for himself, with regards to any member of the party standing here. And anyone connected to them. And any children they may have. Or whatever ‘offspring of their loins’ is supposed to mean.

Crowley's sitting cross-legged in the middle of the demon trap, now, cheek smooshed against his fist as he leans his face into it. He shrugs at Sam's bitchface as Sam reaches for a pen and crosses out those lines with thick, vicious scrapes. "Can't blame me for trying."

"Yeah," Dean kicks a nearby rock across the line of the demon trap. "We really can."

Sam can't argue out of the best faith effort clause—Crowley admits that Hell will be chaotic after all this goes down, and he may or may not be in a position to directly return to Bobby's soul. None of them like it, but it's a foot in the door and they have ten years to fix it.

Bobby's the one who finally puts an end to the squabbling about it. "It's fair," is all that Bobby says. Dean thinks maybe he's trying to lay groundwork for future problems. Crowley is… reasonable, for a double-dealing, soul-stealing demon. Kind of.

Finally Sam hits the end of the parchment with a tired sigh. "I think we're good."

"As good as selling your soul to a demon can be," Dean mutters.

"Cheer up, mate," Crowley says, rolling his scroll back up jauntily. "You're saving the world, aren't you?"

"Oh, please," Bobby says, before crossing the lines into the devil's trap. "Like you don't get exactly what you want out of this. There ain't an altruistic bone in your stolen body."

Crowley grins and puckers up. “Come to papa,” he croons.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Dean doesn't look. Sam doesn't look. Cas might look, because Cas does not look away from shit. But it's just too childish even for Dean to stick his fingers in his ears to avoid hearing the wet sound.

(Or the click from a camera, what the fuck?)

Cas sounds amused when he says, "They're done, you can turn back around," so that confirms that Cas did, indeed, look.

Though Dean could've gone his whole damned life without hearing Crowley complaining, "What's with the tongue?"

The King of the Crossroads actually looks _amused_ , though, when Bobby scrapes off a corner of the devil's trap. He offers them a wooden box that looks, well...

"That's really small," Sam blurts.

Dean's glad that it's Sam who said it.

Crowley waggles his eyebrows. "Big things... small packages." He gestures up and down himself. Bi or not, Dean's gonna retch. "Be seeing you around, boys."

Then he's gone.

They don't talk on the drive back to Bobby's. Dean tries to say something, but Bobby just cuts him off and asks Cas what his least favorite part of the King James Bible translation is instead. That conversation goes on for a solid hour after they get back, like nothing special just fucking happened

Dean lessens the sting of betrayal by spending time with Sam. Who's looking like he's ready to drop off for a nap.

Dean gets them comfortable on the couch near the tv, pops on something old, interesting, but not too loud, and places a bet with himself on how quickly Sam will pass out. He loses at 13 minutes. Darn.

When Dean rejoins Bobby and Cas, though, he can tell that shit has gotten serious, and there’s bad news. Bobby’s standing at the door with it open, and Cas is standing just outside it, pressing a hand against the empty air of the doorway like he’s trying to shove his palm through Jell-O. Dean reaches out and grabs him, pulling him back into the kitchen.

"Anna is gone," Cas says. His voice is a sandpaper rasp of grief. "Taken while we were busy with Crowley."

Cas stalks past them both, then sinks down into a squeaky recliner that whines under him like it's weeping. He doesn't put his head into his hands, but he does look down at his palms, his knees. Maybe he's remembering Anna. Maybe the guilt's too heavy for him to raise his chin.

Dean knows the feeling. Cas doesn't need to say 'This is my fault' or 'she's my friend' because it's all over his shoulders. He only hesitates for a second before slowly lowering himself to the armrest. He makes sure it'll support his weight—it does—before settling a hand at the back of Cas's neck.

He's not as good at that... radiating thing that Cas does, but he tries.

"So the feathery fuckers know we know something," Bobby growls, loud enough that Dean hears Sam turn over on the sofa in the other room. "'Leastwise we never told her 'bout the scythe."

Dean can't disagree with that, but he doesn't say it aloud. He didn't know Anna for shit, but Cas did, and they both know that in the condition she arrived in? She's probably dead, now.

"No," Cas says, his voice very quiet. Dean didn’t say anything aloud, but, well, he didn’t have to. "Probably worse."

"Worse than what?" Bobby asks.

They're not used to having conversations around other people.

"Death," Cas answers, almost in a monotone. "Heaven's justice is swift... unless they think they can use you. Do you remember how I said that Heaven would cut out a malignancy sooner than heal it?"

Dean and Bobby nod.

"That can be literal, sometimes. After I regained my grace, I found out that they can… recondition us," Cas continues, slowly, Dean can feel his skin crawl. "Heaven considers the removal of disobedience to be a mercy."

"Brainwashing?" Bobby asks. He doesn't look surprised, just tired.

Cas tells them in fits and starts what he remembers of his own visits to Heaven's Bible camp. As Dean hears the details, he's more impressed than ever that Cas could even rebel at all, let alone when and how he did it. Cas is leaning into the pressure Dean is putting on his neck, thumb stroking in slow, hopefully soothing circles.

"If she comes to us again," Cas says, sadly, tilting his face up to face Dean, "we should not trust her at all."

"She could escape," Dean says. "Just... you know. Toss the grace to the wind and go all Free Willy. You did."

Cas shakes his head. "I had... something to hold onto. Something to anchor me to myself." He puts his hand on Dean's knee. "I don't think I ever thanked you for that."

Dean doesn't know what to say to that. For all that he's glad Cas is still _Cas_ —and it sounds like he wouldn't've been, if Heaven got hold of him again—Cas has also been through Hell and back for him. Literally.

Dean expects Bobby to make a disgusted noise, but he doesn't. He just huffs. "Well, ain't that just peachy. Looks like we better get crackin' on figuring out where this Lilith chickadee's gonna wanna be." He gestures to Cas with his chin. "You wanna help me out here, Professor?"

Dean knows that Bobby's right. That's where their priorities are. Getting crackin' like that is probably just what Cas needs to get his mind off this, too.

Doesn't mean Dean _doesn't_ want to wrap him up in that trench coat of his and cuddle him into bed, though.

Dean shakes his head. "Yeah, you guys, uh, yeah. I'll get Sammy horizontal and tucked in."

Cas looks up at Dean before he can move and leans into his body, briefly. There's the hint of heat at Dean's sternum, the softest of kisses. Dean's head drops automatically, nose wanting to bury itself in Cas's crazy hair. It feels weird, with Bobby right there, not looking at them, but also not seeming like he gives two shits about it. But maybe Dean is starting to get used to it. Slightly.

Cas has been so careful with Dean in this way. He only ever reaches out to take just as much as Dean is willing to offer in the open, and he’s never reached out for more. With them touching like this, he can feel Cas's reluctance to take even this much comfort in such a public space. But Dean can also feel Cas's anger and sadness and hopelessness, and how he just needs _something_ a little physical to help. 

Cas doesn't have to ask though, Dean realizes. Dean’s more than happy to give him this. In front of Bobby or not.

He returns Cas's kiss with a soft one of his own to Cas's hair, before standing up and leaving them to their research. Wrestling Sam back downstairs is a real treat: the kid is so exhausted that he's just awake enough to trip over not only his own two feet, but Dean's as well. Dean would’ve honestly just left him on the couch, but he knows how much his back hurts after a night on that thing.

But Dean's heart lifts, just a little, at getting Sam into the cot and not having to lock and bar the door behind him. “G’night,” Sam mumbles, and on another day, Dean would keep that memory for later.

When he gets back, Cas and Bobby are talking about something to do with Mesopotamia—he thinks that's what they said—and sacred texts about what it takes to crack open the world. There are enough piles of books around them that Dean's not sure how they're going to get out of their little book-fort without knocking over something on their way, but that's not his problem.

Cas has a little more spring to his step, at least, and he's enthusiastically pointing out something on a piece of paper under glass that looks like it might be older than he is. Like, angel-him.

(Yeah, Dean knows that doesn't make any fucking sense, but Bobby’s got some really old shit, okay? Dean's glad to see Cas like this: all resolute, not wilting around the edges anymore.)

Cas leans back in his perch and sighs, rubbing his forehead. "We should have known about Lilith," he says, looking a little frustrated. "Pretty much every culture, every _religion_ , focuses on the power that a death has in opening portals. Calling gods."

Bobby snorts. "They ain't normally sacrificing their _own_."

Cas arches an eyebrow and sits up straight, and Dean almost feels his own lips curve into a smile as his eyes spark brighter. "Well," he says, his voice low and confident, "Actually, even as early as the Aztecs the idea of giving one’s heart to Huitzilopochtli was considered a great honor, and a guaranteed ticket to glory. While most studies have shown the fallacy of the willing victim in Greek historical sacrifice, if you consider, too, the idea that Buddha’s past lives represented—"

Christ. Dean really is kind of angel-dating a guy who’s a hell of a lot smarter than he is. But Cas almost makes this kind of shit sound interesting.

Bobby shoos Dean out of the way when Dean almost knocks over one of the piles of books for leaning closer to listen. Dean grumbles, but he heads down to make sure that the scythe is stowed securely. Baby's gotta be in tip-top shape, 'cause she's gonna go for the ride of her life soon.

Cas wanders out to find him a few hours after Dean has to turn on the outside lighting to keep working. Dean's down to the point where he either has to call it a night, or start seriously disassembling large parts, and that's not a good idea with the time of day and their impending run on Lilith.

Cas doesn't say anything. He just leans against the side of the car and waits until Dean is ready to speak.

Finally Dean puts down the ratchet in his hand, wiping off the bits of grease that have gotten on it and his hands. He turns to Cas and balances one hip on the bumper in front of him. "So you and Bobby come up with anything?"

Cas wiggles his hand out in front of him, as if to say 'so-so.' "We've been looking into location spells, but Lilith is more than likely hidden from anything novice practitioners like us might come up with."

Dean grins. "Look at you, callin' yourself a 'practitioner' now." He goes a little more serious, though. "Anything 'bout, you know, what other things they're gonna want to put in that lock to open the cage? Other than Lilith?"

Cas nods. "It will almost certainly have to be a place of great power and significance to Lucifer." He wrinkles his nose delicately. "My studies about Satanism have suggested that anything espoused by the Church of Satanism is... probably not it."

Dean feels his eyes widen. "Uh, why were you studying Satanism? 'Know thy enemy?'"

Cas laughs, softly. "Religious studies doesn't just mean 'Christianity,' Dean. I studied Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Shinto, Islam. My Ph.D is in interdisciplinary texts. The only reason I don't know more about Satanism is that most sacred texts are ancient, and the modern Church of Satan was only founded in 1966."

"Listen to you. My hot professor," Dean says, waggling his eyebrows.

"My beautiful hunter," Cas answers, completely seriously.

"Goddammit, Cas," Dean mutters, feeling color start in his cheeks.

This time, Cas laughs. "You do look very good like this," Cas says, appreciatively, and actually gives Dean the whole deal, the head-to-toe once over, obvious as a kiss.

Dean gapes at him, and then laughs. "Cas, man, you got a mechanic kink or something?"

Cas smirks. "More like a Dean Winchester kink; the rest is just details." He looks Dean up and down one more time. "Though I admit, this version has the lingering air of competency and strong hands. I like it."

Dean stares at him, and then asks, innocently, "Hey, I don't suppose you have a pair of reading glasses?"

He gets a long blank stare for his troubles before Cas leans in and asks into his ear, breath hot. "Why, are you hot for teacher?"

And that's the sound of Dean's brain going offline. The way that Cas just suddenly leaves that straight-backed angelic posture and reserve, and just softens right into humanity, will never not be hot. He shudders and grips the dirty rag in his hands so that he doesn't reach out and mess Cas up with grease.

Though that might be fun one day. When there wasn't a cantankerous old man and Dean’s baby brother between them and a bedroom and shower.

It's stupid that even just one joke from Cas can get him forgetting that they're rocketing at light speed towards the end of the world. But it does.

"Dinner is ready," Cas says, like he didn't just send Dean's brain into critical system failure, or whatever the computer term is.

Dean grins, because he can't help it, and because dammit, Cas is fucking awesome. "Did you make it?"

Cas smiles, shaking his head. "I can only make breakfast foods," he admits. "Any other time I was shooed out of the kitchen, very promptly." He reaches out a hand to Dean—a little shyly, Dean thinks.

Dean checks to make sure his hand isn't too dirty before he links their pointer fingers together. "Ain't nothin' wrong with breakfast for dinner, I'm pretty sure that's what most diners exist for."

They're still bickering over pancakes versus waffles when they sit down at the table (venison stew, and no one asks where the deer came from).

Dinner takes a weird turn, though. Bobby and Cas do most of the talking, but it quickly veers from 16th century diaspora-based language shifts—why does Bobby even know about this stuff?—to weirdly mundane but Cas-centric things.

Dean doesn't quite realize what's happening, mostly because it's never happened to him before, until Bobby goes in for the “So where’re your folks in all this?” question. 

Cas freezes up and Dean's heart rate jackrabbits.

"We don't speak," Cas says, after a pause that’s a little too long, and there's a subtle little quiver to his voice that Dean picks up immediately. Bobby gets it a half second later, which is impressive, considering Dean's the one with the cheat sheet inside his head. Bobby drops it. 

The rest of the meal is a little surreal, though, because now that Dean realizes what's happening? Watching the only father figure he’s got interrogate his—Dean’s—interrogate Cas, yeah, it's an out-of-body experience.

It's gratifying for Dean to find out he knows most of what Cas tells Bobby. The exceptions are the kinds of things there hasn't been time for—like the hilarious shit twin brothers can get up to when other people think they're nearly identical. Turns out Jimmy can imitate Cas's voice, and vice versa.

It's Bobby who brings up what Dean never really thought that much about, though. "So, this, you know, thing." He gestures back and forth between them. "It's not, like... forbidden or anything, is it? Apostate kind of shit?" He leans in and his expression under his beard isn't nice. "You gonna bring trouble to my boys, just bein'?"

Cas isn't fazed, though. "I think your 'boys' bring enough trouble to themselves that way,” he answers, a little wryly. “But... strictly speaking, no. Relationships between humans and angels are not unheard of, just... exceedingly rare. The last I knew of was a century or so ago." His lips crease. "I'm much more likely to be hunted for flouting Heaven's will than that."

Bobby grunts. "Good."

"Okay, how's that 'good?'" Dean demands. Also, 'flouting?' Jesus, Cas.

Cas shrugs. "Neither of us is biologically capable of having the other's child, so there's no risk of Nephilim? Because that would be an immediate death sentence."

Dean made the mistake of lifting his beer to his mouth before Cas answered, because he did not fucking expect Cas to suddenly start talking about someone having _kids_. Even though this conversation’s really not about that, Dean can't help but accidentally inhale some of his beer.

Cas has the audacity to give him one amused eyebrow before turning back to Bobby. "To be honest, after all this is done, I can't begin to fathom what may or may not annoy Heaven. I also…" he stops short, and this time, the look he sends to Dean is different. "Sorry, I had meant to discuss this with Dean privately."

Both of Dean's eyebrows go up but he shrugs. Their legs are pressing against each other under the table, firm and yielding at the same time. One of Cas's begins to bounce nervously. Okay, that’s new.

"I was thinking about," Cas says, and now he's just looking at this plate, "removing the bulk of my grace when all is said and done. If it can be done safely. Living out my life as a human." Now he's looking up at Dean with just his eyes, and his face says it all. He wants to grow old with Dean instead of remaining still and marble-like in the face of time.

Dean's not sure what to do with that. 'Cause that means that Cas is thinking about surviving this, too.

And if Dean's gonna be honest? Like, really, really honest? He's always charged through this shit making like there's another side to come out on. And with what they're dealing with, here— powers far outside anything Dean, Bobby, Sam, and maybe even _Cas_ can understand—there's a good chance there's nothing but the Pearly Gates for one or both of them.

If there even are Pearly Gates waiting for folk like them. Dean's been to Hell, after all. He knows what he's done.

"Aww," Dean says, his tone light. Even though he knows it's not a light fucking topic, and it's not the right time for his joking around. But he can't plan for tomorrow yet. Not yet. "Before I even get to see your wings?"

Bobby's eyebrows shoot up, and he drawls, "Leave me outta your kinky shit," as he stands up from the table and walks into the kitchen.

The intense look that Cas is giving Dean doesn't have time to actually come out of his mouth, though, 'cause Bobby's back with three beers. "I got the hunters lookin' for anything that goes boo," Bobby says, instead, back to their first topic. “You got anything in particular they oughtta be sniffing for?” 

Dean relaxes back into the chair. He didn’t realize that his hands were in fists on the table until they unclench.

Cas sinks back into his, looking down at his hands, folded in his lap, now. But he answers what Bobby asked. He doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes.

Shit. Dean fucked this up.

Cas's leg remains pressed against his, but there's a sort of an achy sorrow that's coming from him that hurts Dean's stomach. There's no outward change beyond Cas's shoulders being a little more rounded or his face a little more shadowed. 

After dinner, Cas still gravitates towards Dean seemingly without thought, still smiles at him for no apparent reason other than he wants to. He’s still there and present for the conversation, and even cracks an occasional joke. But Dean is counting the minutes until they're no longer around other people. He's not sure what he wants more, for it to come faster or for it to never come.

After the third time Dean gets caught staring off into space instead of his book, he gives up and goes upstairs. Maybe a long hot shower will help. Well, as long a shower as Bobby's ancient water heater can manage. 

Cas is in their room by the time he gets back. Dean’s kind of glad he took his clothing with him to the bathroom: being half-naked next to a fully clothed Cas does things to his brain.

Well, generally, being near Cas can do things to his brain. But they're nice things, mostly, and Dean doesn't really have many complaints.

Cas is slumped on the bed, looking at his hands again, when Dean walks in. He looks up, blue eyes catching Dean’s,and they stare at each other, the few feet apart seeming like miles. Cas doesn’t say anything aloud. From this close, their connection is full of regret and sadness and hope, and a lot of things that make Dean's stomach swoop.

"I'm bad at this," Dean eventually says, and he sounds so small and quiet to his own ears. "I can't think about that, Cas. I can't think about the future like that, not yet. I won't be able to—" 

He cuts himself off.

Cas is suddenly there, standing, pulling him close and tucking him into the curve of his body. His big ugly coat flares around them both as he pulls Dean inside it. "I guessed," he says. "I can't help but think that way, but I know why you can't. I do."

Dean sighs, and sets his temple against Cas's. Cas is warm and careful and those strong hands are curled at Dean's back. "Okay," Dean says, because he can't say any of the things he really wants to say. 

_"I want that, too." "I want you to have your life back." "You're gonna be a silver fox one day and I wanna be there to watch it happen."_ Dean doesn't even know how to want that kind of thing.

Or "I don't even know how the fuck to live that kind of life."

But he doesn't say any of that.

He dips his head and takes Cas's mouth instead, hot and indelicate, his hand coming around the back of Cas's head to grip his messed-up dark hair, not exactly gently.

Cas groans into it, pulling Dean in closer, pressing the entire lengths of their bodies together. They're speaking a language Dean can handle now. Dean is more than happy to lick and suck and bite and rub all over Cas, until neither of them can see straight but both of them are very damned sure about Dean's intentions and feelings.

Cas, like always, ignores Dean's best-laid plans and slides his way out of his coat and jacket, separating briefly from Dean to tug Dean’s t-shirt over his head. 

Then he, bold as brass and twice as daring, places his entire hand onto the mark on Dean’s shoulder—just fits his fingers right over it without even looking.

Connection, bone-deep and pleasure-sharp, springs up between them. It's more than they need, and more than they've really played around with, but it also communicates more than Dean has ever been able to say out loud.

It also feels _amazing_.

"Shit!" Dean gasps, and his knees buckle right out from under him.

Okay, that's really embarrassing. But Cas's other arm is around his waist, holding him up, hauling him against his body. Dean almost wishes that he was still wearing his jeans rather than his boxers and what feels like an incredibly thin t-shirt, because with Cas rubbing against him like that, he's gonna come embarrassingly quickly.

And Cas still hasn't let go of the handprint.

It's everything like when Cas licks and pets it, and nothing like it at all. It's like the little sips of love and connection and support he gets from Cas are just little drops in a huge well of those feelings, and Cas just dumped a bucketful of them over his head.

Except not. Because that doesn't sound like it feels good. And this feels _holy shit_ really damned good.

Cas hauls him closer with that one arm around him. There's a thick thigh between Dean’s that he can rest some of his weight on—only that's not quite what Dean does. Instead he rubs, melting right into Cas's embrace, the arm at his back just helping him right along. If he couldn't feel Cas's own erection pressing into him, riding Dean's thigh, too, he might be more embarrassed.

There's a swell and a crest of pleasure starting at the soles of his feet. Cas swallows his sounds with a deep, biting kiss. Dean's holding on for dear life, arms locked around Cas's neck, one of his legs pressing and working along Cas’s cock, knowing this roller coaster ride is just about to make its big finish.

He doesn't know if it's lust that Cas shoves at him through their connection, if it's love, or if it's both and Cas can't even tell them apart anymore. If that's the case, Dean gets it, he gets it—at moments like this, he can't tell them apart, either. Dean's thighs clench on the thick one wedged between his, Cas rocks against his hip, and he doesn't want to go over the edge yet, he doesn't—

Cas says, "Dean." That's it, that's all he says. And through Dean's damned _shoulder_ , he feels just what that means to Cas.

And that's it, that's fucking it. The crest that started in his feet, his calves, his knees, ricochets and meets the overwhelming wave of light and heat coming from his shoulder, and they collide somewhere in the vicinity of Dean's dick. He can't even arch—he can't even move, split between his own feelings and Cas's, and oh God.

He can feel Cas balanced on the same ledge, so close to coming he's trembling. Dean can feel Cas trembling on the cusp of a goddamned _orgasm_ , and it feels a little like his own, maybe, but _not_ , and how is that even possible that—that—

Then Dean’s brain is gone. He's shaking, and Jesus fucking Christ he's coming in his boxers, faster than he's come since he went through _puberty._ Which is only okay because he knows, he feels, he hears Cas coming, too—moaning loud and hungry into his ear.

Dean doesn't actually know how they're still both standing up after.

"Oh," Cas mumbles. "I didn't... actually realize that would happen."

Dean lets his head drop onto his angel's shoulder, feeling lighter than he's felt through most of the evening. And laughs.

Cas shuffles them backwards until they can both collapse with some sort of control onto the bed. They're both laughing, now, and the heavy taste of doubt and fear burned away with orgasm. 

It's not that sex solves problems; Jesus, Dean knows that it doesn’t. It's that they both just took a bit of a whirlwind tour of each other's emotions. Dean never knew someone else's joy could taste sweet on the back of his tongue, but it does. Or at least, Cas's does.

Cas is planting soft kisses up and down the column of Dean's throat—nuzzling into the soft skin for no other reason than he seems to want to. Dean doesn't exactly want to let go just yet either: his hands are running through Cas's hair in random patterns. His skin buzzes pleasantly and throbs warmly wherever they touch.

"We're gross," Dean mumbles, tucking his nose into Cas's hair and taking a breath. He smells like books, like sunshine. Maybe a little like sweat. Dean inhales deeper.

"Bobby would probably agree with you. I get the feeling your family is not accustomed to displays of affection," Cas says. He doesn't sound bitter about it, though—more amused than anything. He nuzzles into the side of Dean's neck, feathering his lips back and forth.

Dean chortles a little. It tickles, but the warm buzz of connection feels even better. "I mean, yeah. We're as likely to be hit upside the back of the head, or something." He chuckles and curves his hands over Cas's hips, letting his fingers splay gently up and down his sides. "But I meant that my boxers are gross, buddy."

Cas pauses, and rests his chin over Dean's shoulder. He snakes a hand over Dean's ass, and Dean thinks maybe Cas is getting a little frisky again—hey, he's willing to see if he can get hard again, it wasn't exactly a normal kind of orgasm—but a second later, Dean feels... huh. Clean.

"Hey. Don't waste your grace like that," Dean grumbles, but he can't exactly say he's sorry about it.

Cas wiggles and uses his toes to pull the blanket up over them—somehow, without kneeing Dean in the thigh, which is kind of a great trick. "It's just a drop, and I assure you, Dean, I'm currently filled to overflowing."

The sassy asshole _winks_ at him, and if that puts a thought or two or ten into Dean's mind, well...

Yeah, Dean’s not stupid enough to think it was unintentional.

But he's still grinning as he dozes off, tucked together with a stupidly optimistic sort-of-angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tia:** I don't know who I feel sorrier for in that encounter: Crowley or Bobby! So they've got the scythe now... what do y'all think they're going to do with it? (Aiyah, Cas really can't keep his paws off that handprint, though, can he?)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Tia:** So they've got a bit of hope, a bit of information, and a bit of a plan. Really, what could possibly go wrong...?

Dean wakes up to some loud thumping and a yelp. He cracks his eyes open to find Sam standing the doorway, eyes scrunched closed, slightly grossed-out look on his face. 

Dean looks down at himself—completely covered by the blanket but also, not actually naked under it—and peeks over his shoulder to find Cas looking also fully covered up but also amused as shit. (Yeah, Dean's kind of enjoying being the little spoon right now, so what?) 

"Sam," Dean croaks out, throat crackling from the disuse of sleep. "You can open your eyes. Nothing to see." He pauses thoughtfully. "Though that'll teach you to knock."

"I did knock—"

"He did knock," Sam and Cas say, in unison.

"But he didn't wait," Cas adds. Sam's starting to look a little cornered, but he does crack his eyes open—slowly, like he thinks something on the other side might still blind him.

Dean sighs, leans a little bit further back into Cas, and looks expectantly at Sam. "Well?"

"Er." Sam blinks. "Breakfast?"

“Sure,” Dean agrees. And, because he’s still the big brother, he starts sticking a bare leg out from under the covers. Sam gets out of there like there’s a werewolf on his ass and he’s out of silver.

Sam still looks like he's gotten spooked by a ghost (and they don't take that shit lightly) when Dean and Cas come down: Dean in his flannel and jeans, Cas back in angelwear special. Cas didn't cook this time, so they're stuck with, well. Dean's not sure what it is. There’s some kind of meat in it. He eats it anyway.

(Cas doesn't smirk.)

Bobby starts right on talking to Cas about something to do with Aztec spiritual convergence—where does Bobby get this stuff? But Cas smiles with his eyes as he answers. Oh, they’re continuing the whole ‘willing sacrifice’ convo from last night—creepy, but Dean guesses it’s the best shot they’ve got.

Sam's ghost face doesn't improve. He tilts over towards Dean. "Bobby... likes him?" he whispers.

Dean doesn't bother to tell him that Cas, wards or not, can probably hear him. He shrugs, but feels a smile curve around his lips. "He's weird, but what's not to like?"

Sam narrows his eyes like he thinks Dean's joking. "And you and him are... sleeping together?"

Dean thinks that Sam might actually mean _sleeping_ , sleeping. He's torn between making this easier on Sam and… really not. On the one hand, the kid's had kind of a tough year; on the other, what on Earth did he think the rings meant?

"Sam," Dean says, a little too kindly. "I’m pretty sure you and Jessica didn't just say goodnight and scamper off to separate rooms."

Sam looks a little flustered, and he seems to be searching for the right objection that won't piss Dean off. "But… he's an angel?" is what he settles on.

Dean, because fuck it, Sam deserves some teasing, smiles. "I've been told I'm very restful to lay next to and stare at for several hours at a time."

Cas comments, over his shoulder, "It is not creepy if there is consent." Then he goes back to talking with Bobby in a normal voice. 

Well, looks like someone isn’t going to pretend he can’t hear their whispering. Dean glares at his back. Bobby smirks. Sam doesn't look amused, though, and presses on. "I'm just saying. It's..."

"It's nice, Sam," Dean says. "It's different."

Sam sighs, and clearly can't figure out what he wants to object to. So he turns to Bobby. "How are we doing on the ritual? And finding Lilith?"

That seems to corral everyone back into the same conversation.

"Her death is definitely the key," Cas says, with an authority that he rarely uses. "Sixty-six completely random seals is a nice idea, but locks like this aren't totally random. They can't be. They're too complex, too powerful."

Bobby nods along, like the two of them already had this conversation, or like he agrees completely. Or both.

Cas goes on. "But the first and the last? If you can anchor whatever it is in those?" He nods, firmly, like he's only confirming it for himself. "That would work. The interim seals would mostly be about powering the system, so to speak."

Bobby leans into the table, elbows braced, fork casually dangling from his fingers. "Near as we can tell, it's the combination of timing, location, and her death that nails it. Too late now to off her before the rest of the seals go out,” there’s no judgment in his voice, but Sam still flinches out of the corner of Dean’s eyes. “But if we can kill her someplace else, or somewhen else, then we've still effectively broken the key off in the lock. The question is, are there any other factors we should take out of the equation in advance." He gives Sam a long look.

"You mean me," Sam says, and he doesn't look happy about it. He's been living on a revenge fantasy since Dean was ripped to shreds in front of him. Dean can’t blame him for that, either: hell, he’s seen it happen in their dad. Letting go of that is going to be damned hard.

Cas picks up the thread, nodding slowly. "The parallels are too neat. If Dean was a necessary and sufficient part of the first seal, then the odds are, your participation in the last seal is incredibly dangerous."

Sam's expression, already hesitant, goes sour and flat. "You want me to sit this out," he says, his voice going dangerous. "No."

"I'm not suggesting—"

"You're not suggesting, you're saying it!" Sam exclaims. He shoots a hard look at Dean like he's saying "You see this?"

Dean sighs and scratches the back of his head. "I don't know," he says, and he's not sure who he's saying it to.

Cas opens his mouth. He doesn't say anything else before he closes it. Which just goes to show maybe he's not as socially blind as he lets on.

"Well, all of that's worth dick if we can't even find her," Bobby says, leaning back with his mug of toxic sludge. "How's this head bitch not making any waves?"

"She's had several thousand years to prepare," Cas intones. “We’re talking about thwarting her reason for existence.” It's the most angelic he's sounded in a long time.

Sam puts his fork down. "What about Ruby?"

Dean clenches his teeth and turns to face his brother fully. "What about her?"

"She says she's looking for her," Sam says like it's a reasonable idea. “Seems like a demon would be able to—”

"No!" Dean spits, shaking his head. "No—God, Sam did you not just live through the exact same last few days we did? Did you not see what poison that bitch put in you?"

Sam slams his hand down. "Maybe she thought it was the only way to kill Lilith at all! Did you think of that?"

"Honestly? No," Dean says. "I did not." They stare at each other, anger boiling just under the surface.

"Actually," Cas interrupts, quietly. "It might not matter what Ruby believes."

All three of them turn towards Cas with various levels of, well... eyebrows.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam finally asks, but at least he doesn't sound hostile.

Cas spreads his hands, but for once, that intense attention of his isn't on Dean. He's looking at Sam with a sad sort of gentleness. "You were, until recently, very much the only option for Lilith's demise, I agree. I don't know whose side Ruby is on, and I won’t guess. I think it's possible that she doesn't know about the final seal."

Dean scoffs.

"I didn't know about it," Cas reminds them. "Neither did Anna, and she's higher-ranked than I was. But ultimately, does it matter? Either Ruby is trying to get you to Lilith to kill her because she truly is trying to stop the apocalypse—"

"She's never done anything that's made me believe otherwise."

Cas acknowledges it with a nod. "—or she'll lead you right to the location where Lilith's death will break the world. But either way, she would want you to find Lilith. It behooves her to not mislead you."

Goddamnit, Cas is right, but the very idea of letting Sam back into Ruby's clutches makes him sick.

"So," Bobby says, "what then? Sam calls her up and pretends like nothing's up? We just cross our fingers and hope she comes through with the information without thoroughly screwing with his head again?” He shakes his head. “And what happens when he doesn't want the blood? Or needs to woo-woo out a demon in front of her?"

Dean turns to Cas, but he won't meet Dean's eyes. 

And that's when he knows what Cas might really be suggesting. 

"Are you _kidding _me?" Dean growls. The feeling of betrayal is like being punched in the throat, and Cas still won't meet his eyes. "You want to send an addict back into the drug den with orders to drink long and deep, and hope he doesn’t, what, OD?” Or, hell, worse?__

__"That’s not what I’m saying. Sam," Cas says, very slowly. "I can’t say that I recommend this. You must know your family loves you and will support you no matter what the outcome. Yes, it _may_ work. But the very notion of it turns my stomach. I could never ask this of you, no one should, and there must be other—"_ _

__"I volunteer," Sam says, immediately, almost clipping off the end of Cas's last sentence._ _

__Cas shakes his head. "Listen, please. Sam, you must understand. The amount of blood Ruby will expect you to drink to kill Lilith could very well change you forever. You might not come out the other side wholly human. You may come out the other side _damned_ , and that is not a term I use lightly. Even if it works, it might cost you everything."_ _

__Sam's jaw clenches, and why the fuck did Cas leave in that ‘if’ at all? Dean can't believe what he's hearing. From any of them._ _

__"No!" he yells, over whatever it is Sam's planning to say. "Let me get this straight, Cas. You think he's gonna, what. Go prancing down the yellow brick road and then just stop before he sees the wizard?"_ _

__Cas blinks at him, slowly._ _

__"I think if we tell Ruby—" Sam starts._ _

__Both Dean and Bobby shout "No!" at the same time. (Cas, probably wisely, says nothing.)_ _

__"Are you outta your mind?" Bobby says, slamming his mug down on the table. "And what if she _is_ leading you to be the key to Lucifer's cage, huh? What then?"_ _

__"What benefit would there be to telling her?" Cas asks, still too gently._ _

__Sam stares at Cas, and his eyes have gone cold again. "It's called ‘trusting the people who are watching your back.’" He looks between them. “Though I guess you managed to make Dean forget all about that. Remind me how you’re any different from Ruby?”_ _

__“Hey!” Dean barks. “What the hell, Sammy?”_ _

__Cas goes quiet—not just from the table, but from Dean's head. Shit, Dean didn’t even know that could happen. It's disturbing._ _

__"Sam," he eventually says, and he sounds small to Dean, "I didn't ask to be a secret. I do not believe that was ever our intention, and I didn’t enjoy it. But taking your frustration and betrayal about that out on our plans to save the world serves no one."_ _

__Dean feels like shit, curling up into himself. A tiny trickle from Cas comes back, though: such love and affection Dean shivers with it._ _

__Sam looks like he didn't expect Cas to address it head-on like that. Sam obviously hasn't been paying attention._ _

__"I have a brother," Cas goes on, just as quiet, just as still. He talks over Sam's snort; Sam is probably thinking about the other angels, but Dean knows that’s not what Cas is saying. "Jimmy," Cas clarifies, and there's only the slightest hint of censure in it. "He loves me. He loves me so much he cut our parents out of his life so they could no longer hurt me. I understand that kind of love: I want to protect him with my entire being, and as an angel, that's actually a fairly alarming urge." He pauses again, looks at Dean like he's his entire world. "I would never take that love away from someone else if I could help it. So please, stop acting like my being mistrustful of a demon that got you addicted to demon blood is a sign of the end times. It really isn't."_ _

__Dean wants to say he doesn't understand where Cas is coming from. What he's saying. Except he does, 'cause it wasn't that long ago that the little brother that Dean would've done anything for, the kid Dean had spent his whole childhood wanting to protect, walked out on him and their dad, and into a whole new life._ _

__Sam glares at him, but doesn't say anything._ _

__"I believe in honesty, too. And I commend you for wanting to share the truth with someone you care for. But are you willing to risk our scrap of a plan for it, knowing what the consequences of it might be?" Cas finishes, in a rush._ _

__“Why not?” Sam’s glare doesn’t get any less mean. “Dean did it for you.”_ _

__That one hits hard, Dean can feel it inside Cas. Cas’s expression hasn’t changed one iota from its stone-carved, angelic distance, but Dean can still tell Sam landed a solid blow. After a beat, Cas stands and walks out of the room._ _

__Is that what this is about? Jesus fucking Christ. Doesn't Sam get that family is family to Dean, it's just... a little bigger now than it was?_ _

__Dean knows Cas will never, would never, make him choose. Except isn't that sort of that he's doing now? What they're all doing now?_ _

__Dean scrubs a hand over his face. He's no good at this shit. Should he go after Cas? Stay here and get that glare off Sam's face, ‘cause that’s the look of someone about to do something really fucking stupid? Dean half-rises, and the look on Bobby's face ("you idjit, sit your ass down" given eyeballs) gets his ass back into the seat. Cas is still a cold, hard knot in his chest and Dean figures he probably needs some time to himself anyway._ _

__"The angel ain't wrong," Bobby says, grimly. "And it ain't like you weren't keepin' secrets either, Samuel, so you don't get to be pissy. But what's the harm of keeping just one?"_ _

__Dean doesn’t know if it’s just that it’s Bobby, or that Cas has left the room, but Sam unclenches enough that they can finally plan things without the enormous chip on his shoulder getting in the way. Their best play is still to call Ruby and play into the idea that they all believe she's at the very least on her own side, since that means that her self-preservation involves killing Lilith._ _

__They agree to giving Ruby their location, if she hasn't already sussed it out by now. Sam’ll say he's on lockdown at Bobby's place, but they're not keeping an eye on him 24/7. He'll fake getting needier and needier about the blood (not hard, Dean thinks, bitterly) and wait to see what carrot she starts dangling. They'll reevaluate then._ _

__Dean hates this plan. He hates it with a burning passion._ _

__When they're finally done—or rather, when Dean can no longer stand to think about it anymore and just needs a break—he goes to find Cas. When Dean does find him, he's staring out the window in the main room, book open and forgotten in his hand. Cas has got to know he's there; he was probably able to listen to their entire planning session from where he’s standing, so Dean thudding quietly but carelessly into the same room shouldn’t be a struggle for him. But for maybe the first time, he doesn't turn and give Dean that little smile._ _

__"I'm sorry," Dean says, through the lump in his throat. It's hard to even say the words out here, in the main house, without a door between them and the world. "I never asked, and I should have."_ _

__Cas doesn't ask "about what?" but he also doesn't say "it's alright." He folds the book in his hands closed, and lovingly brushes off the cover. A plume of dust comes off it. Cas doesn't look up from it._ _

__"You weren't ready," Cas says. "You've said."_ _

__That makes Dean feel even shittier, because... yeah. He wasn't. One of the truly good things that's ever happened to him in his whole shitty life, and he wasn't ready to talk about it. Not to Sam, not to anyone. He wants to snap back, "You never said anything!" But that's not fair, either, and sometimes Dean can tell when he's deflecting._ _

__"Did it, um. Did it bother you?" he finally asks, throat tight._ _

__Cas sighs, softly. "Yes, and no, I suppose," he answers, finally looking up._ _

__"I never meant—"_ _

__"I know," Cas says, interrupting him. "Dean, I know." He reaches out and skims his fingers over Dean's hand, the ring on his finger. "I never imagined I'd do this, not really. And I know that you never—well—got anywhere close to imagining it."_ _

__Dean turns his hand over, offering it to Cas. He takes it after only a brief hesitation. "I liked having you to myself," Dean admits, quietly. "Yeah, I wasn't ready... but I also liked having just one thing that wasn't about—" he looks around the room, jerking his chin at the piles of lore books and weapons and spell ingredients. "—all this."_ _

__Cas squeezes Dean’s fingers gently, and softly rubs his thumb over Dean's knuckles. "I, too, looked upon our time as a reprieve. I just—" He closes his eyes. "I remember being closeted, and I remember the day I realized I didn’t have to care anymore. There's freedom in just... being. Then, suddenly, I was back to privacy, and secrets, and careful planning, and remembering what I could and could not say. I was glad to do it, but it was also… a little difficult, sometimes."_ _

__"But," Cas takes a deep breath and his hand holds Dean's a little tighter. "Dean, about Sam... I never intended—I'm sorry. I didn't... realize he'd, um."_ _

__"Go off his fucking rocker about it?" Dean rubs his free hand up and down his thigh with a sigh. "Y'know, I really didn't see that coming earlier? I mean, shit. I kind of got him thinking you had me under some kind of spell, or whatever, but this? I wanna say it's the demon blood, but..."_ _

__Cas has a funny little half-smile on his face when he shakes his head. "It's not. It's really not. And I understand."_ _

__"Well, I don't," Dean says, with a huff. "But so long as you're not givin' him any more funny ideas about going back to his demon drug dealer, Cas," Dean says, half-smiling, "We're fine."_ _

__Cas doesn't smile back. He looks away. "I'm sorry. It's the last thing I wish for him, you know that! But categorically denying that it’s an option only would have made him more stubborn. Besides, I—" he cuts himself off, but Dean knows what he's going to say._ _

__"You can't think of any other way to find Lilith before it’s too late," Dean finishes for him._ _

__Cas shakes his head and looks raw, staring blank-eyed out the window._ _

__"C'mere," Dean whispers, tugging their joined hands lightly. Cas turns to him so quickly that Dean almost overbalances. Cas tucks his face into Dean's neck and sighs._ _

__Over Cas’s shoulder, Dean sees the outline of Sam's big silhouette, just leaving the room._ _

__They spend the rest of the day doing 'research.' Dean was never good at the patience it needed in the first place, and by a few hours in, he's got his legs slung over one arm of the couch with a pile of newspapers balanced on the table beside him and his laptop on his thighs, looking desperately for something, anything, that might be a demon omen. 'Cause he can't look at any more ancient signs and symbols of sites that _might_ or _might not_ be significant to Lucifer, most of 'em not subnoted in any kind of English, without throwing a book through the wall. Or lighting it on fire. And he’s pretty sure that none of the other three nerds in the room will forgive him for that._ _

__But Cas and Sam are, at least, not acting like the other is holding grenades in their pockets—joined by their shared nerddom, at least. And maybe, just a bit, the fact that Cas is a little more into the crazy plan than Dean is._ _

__Dean will never be into that plan. Fucking never._ _

__Bobby goes out and brings back a pizza for lunch (thank God, Dean thought he was gonna try and cook again) but Cas, a little shyly, offers to make dinner. "Just egg in a basket," he says, "with some fried ham. And maybe some canned vegetables on the side?" His smile is rueful, adorable. "I know it's breakfast food, but..."_ _

__"I'll help," Sam says, very abruptly. “With the cooking.”_ _

__Cas blinks, looking startled, but he nods, slowly. "Alright."_ _

__The usual kitchen rummaging sounds that mean food's being cooked start up. Dean waits approximately ten whole seconds before he follows. Perks of having spent a lot of his childhood in this house: he knows where all the squeaks are._ _

__"…about Jimmy?" Sam is asking._ _

__"Jimmy? Of course. What do you want to know, Sam?" Cas asks, before moving some pots and pans around, drowning out their conversation. Even with straining, Dean can only get scraps. "…always protected me and I him—For a long time, we only ever understood each other—"_ _

__There's more cooking noises and the pots start sizzling. Sam and Cas are both talking quietly enough that Dean only gets every third word or so. But they’re definitely talking._ _

__"Well, now, I know that's the end of the world comin' for sure," Dean mutters, sitting back down on the sofa and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He grabs up a pile of local and regional newspapers._ _

__Bobby snorts, and pulls down a bottle of something brown that doesn't have a label on it. When he pops the top on it, Dean can smell it from across the room. "What bug's crawled up your ass, boy? Can't take it when they're fighting, can't take it when they ain't? Shouldn't'a gotten angel married without tellin' your brother, then."_ _

__Dean glares at him over the edge of a newspaper. "Screw you," he says, because he's not good at a comeback when someone's fucking _right_. "Don't we have an apocalypse to stop?"_ _

__Dinner is less tense: Cas and Sam seem to have come to some sort of compromise. They're talking about their favorite movies, some of which surprise Dean. Cas seems to have a liking for history._ _

__"Apollo 13," Cas explains. "I know now that I actually watched it happen, but at the time, I didn't quite understand the magnificent feat it was. Humans went to another celestial body with slide rules and three significant figures. Do you know how radical and brave that was? Even compared to today's technology. If you combined the three cell phones in this room, I think they might have more computing power than the master computer in the Apollo capsule."_ _

__Sam nods enthusiastically, leaning forward. "Do you think it became your favorite genre because you were subconsciously remembering all these cool historical events?"_ _

__Cas takes a bite of his vegetables—he dressed them up with some kind of vinegar, and it’s better than Dean expected—and agrees, "Very likely.” He chews and swallows. “Though that doesn't explain my penchant for crappy reality tv when I'm ill."_ _

__Everyone stops eating. Finally, Dean sniggers. "It kinda does." He reaches over, almost automatically now, and rubs a hand down Cas's forearm. "You're such a nerd."_ _

__Cas smiles at him. "I am," he says, without an ounce of shame. "I am, in fact, a professional nerd. But I like to think that liking reality TV is the most hip thing about me."_ _

__'Hip.' Oh, geez, Cas._ _

__Sam snorts, but when Dean looks at him, he has a hesitant smile just at the corners of his eyes. "If we'd known _this_ was your type, Dean, I think you'd have had fun going to college!"_ _

__Dean scoffs. He’s not turning red. He’s _not_._ _

__Cas turns, and this time the flash of that tiny little smile is directed at Sam. "I'm rather glad he didn't discover nerdy college coeds," he says, very solemnly. "I don't think I could've taken the competition."_ _

__A lot of the tight knot of dread that's been brewing behind Dean's solar plexus unwinds, and he laughs. "You? What about me? You told me that it was basically like Indiana Jones in your classroom."_ _

__Cas gets that look on his face, like he'd be blushing if there wasn't just enough angelic grace keeping his body leveled off. "Honestly?" he says, between slow bites. "After the third young lady came to office hours in practically nothing but a coat and lingerie, I'd have welcomed almost any attention that wasn't practically underage, thought I'd be immoral enough to sleep with a student and, you know... female."_ _

__Sam nearly chokes on his own dinner, before laughing so hard he's shaking. "Oh my God," he gasps. "You’re one of those! We had one at Stanford: no matter what he did, it was like coeds couldn't keep their panties on. The university set you up with an office hours babysitter, didn't they?” "_ _

__Cas gives them an eyeroll that goes practically all the way to Heaven. "They called her a professorial assistant," he notes, sourly. "This was effective in rerouting young women only about... fifty percent of the time. I think we underestimated their ambition." He grimaces. "Then _she_ set her attentions on me. That was about when they stopped making me teach undergrads." He takes a contemplative sip of beer while Dean's laughing. "She was very good at her filing, though."_ _

__"So you always been gay, then?" Bobby says, blunt as a truck. "Not, just, y'know, for this one?" He pokes a thumb at Dean._ _

__Sam chokes. "Bobby!"_ _

__Dean really thinks Sam's got no room for that kind of protest, all things considered, but he's not gonna ruck up this peace by saying so._ _

__Cas doesn't seem offended, though. "Oh, always," he says, without hesitation. "Though I suppose it could also be argued that yes, it was always for..." his eyes flick to Dean's, and he smiles, mischievous. "This one."_ _

__"Oh. Yeah, lay that flattery on me, baby, you're such a sweet-talker," Dean scoffs. But Cas's knee bumps his under the table, and he feels the little rush of pride and pleasure that's just one hundred percent pure sap._ _

__Bobby makes a big production of sighing loudly. "Well, that's it, then, there'll be no stopping his ego now. 'But Bobby, an angel fell for me, that's how awesome I am!'" Bobby's even got Dean's smirk right._ _

__Sam leans in, waggles one finger at the table. "’Come on, Sammy, no one can resist me, look at Cas!’"_ _

__Dean's face burns, but it doesn't make him feel ashamed, just really, really seen. "Alright, assholes, knock it off."_ _

__Cas bumps his knee again and leans forward, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. "Truthfully, his table manners took some time to get over."_ _

__Dean takes another deliberate bite and smiles, his mouth full. "You think I'm adorable."_ _

__Cas reaches over and steals a leftover bite of toast from Dean's plate. "Of course I do," he answers, primly. "You are very cute. You are cuter than a neutrino star, or than Pluto's ring."_ _

__Bobby hoots and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms and grinning to watch the show._ _

__"Uh, thanks, dude, for the super backhanded compliment," Dean groans, and steals some egg white off Cas's plate. He put some of these dried peppers on them. Fuckin' awesome._ _

__"And you still eat like a bear," Cas adds._ _

__"And you don't even need to eat much at all, so why're you stealing food from my plate?" Dean grumbles._ _

__"You know, Cas, I think I like you," Sam says, sounding surprised._ _

__Cas, at least, doesn't look offended by that._ _

__"I'm kinda changing my mind about that," Dean complains, but he hooks his ankle around Cas's._ _

__Dinner peters out into another bull session about plans. Sam seems more relaxed, though. He's not fighting against keeping Ruby out of the loop, anymore, and that loosens something tight right between Dean's shoulder blades._ _

__Later on in the evening, Sam opens up about Ruby's habits—probably once he’s sure there’s not going to be a smite-on-sight order. There are a bunch of places she likes to appear, cars she likes to drive, the hotels she prefers to bring him to for… privacy. He even talks about her witch skills, which sound annoyingly vast. Even though Sam insists he's learned some useful things out of them, Dean hates everything about it. They settle on calling Ruby in the morning, and Dean doesn’t scream or punch a wall. He thinks they should all be proud of him for that._ _

__Bobby takes them off on a tangent about hex bags that's actually interesting—if not for the gross ingredients. Finally, Sam yawns in the middle of a sentence. He's doing a lot better, but he still seems kind of low on stamina._ _

__“I’m going to get a good night’s sleep before the fireworks start,” he mumbles. Dean’s already seen his head bob a few times._ _

__Bobby shoos them all to bed at that point, with a, "Y’all should go, I'm tired of looking at your faces for a while."_ _

__Cas reaches down for Dean's hand before they head upstairs, a little swoop of his hand that almost looks automatic. He pauses a moment before their fingers actually touch, though, and Dean sort of hates that Cas hesitates for even a goddamned instant, now, after what happened with Sam and everything._ _

__Dean reaches back out maybe a little too vigorously and a little too hard, their knuckles bumping clumsily before he gets a grip and tangles their fingers together. All the way, not just those little finger-brushes they both indulge in._ _

__(Dean didn't think he'd ever have anything like this. Hell, he convinced himself he wouldn't even want it. Now that he's got it, he's not letting his and Sam's combined damned issues fuck this up now.)_ _

__The look of startlement Cas gives him is almost better than Sam's annoyed huff._ _

__"Were you guys always this gross and touchy-feely and I was just never looking?" he demands._ _

__"No," Dean objects._ _

__"A little," Cas says, in the same breath._ _

__Dean sends Cas a betrayed look, but Sam is laughing from the couch. So it's fine. Also, he can admit that sometimes, they are a little gross. Maybe. The pinky holding thing they do might be a little over the top._ _

__Cas sends him this gooey look about halfway up the stairs, just far enough that anyone at the bottom wouldn't be able to see it, and Dean can't stop the little stutter his heart does when he catches it. Cas still looks and feels a little fragile to Dean's eyes, though, under the professionalism he’s tossed over himself like a coat. So when the door closes behind them, Dean pulls Cas in for another hug, sliding his hands under as many layers as he can as he does it._ _

__"You know I'm not trying to be bad at this, right?" Dean whispers in his ear, before kissing his temple gently._ _

__Cas tips his head back until he's looking at Dean from way too close. But he arches both of his eyebrows, and smiles, a little crooked. "Dean, you are my first and only significant romantic relationship, in the eons of my life. And you think _you're_ bad at this?"_ _

__"Maybe you just don't know any better," Dean answers, but he's running a hand up and down Cas's back._ _

__"That's true," Cas answers, and Dean's heart jerks painfully for a moment before Cas, completely without breaking stride, continues, "but I can't see why I'd want to. There is no one I would rather face the end of the world with, Dean Winchester, than you and your family."_ _

__Dean leans in and runs his lips over the pleasantly scratchy curve of Cas's jaw. "You're so dramatic," he chuckles._ _

__They both ignore the fact that none of that drama is actually a joke._ _

__Dean works his way toward Cas's lips, slow little kisses and nips, until they're actually kissing. Cas hums into his mouth, opens easily for Dean's tongue. They actually just... make out for several minutes, doing nothing more than enjoying the careful press of lips and tongue, and the warmth of another body to lean into. Dean is starting to associate pleasant things with the tiny bites of Cas's buttons pressing into his front._ _

__Cas likes to run his hands down Dean's sides, fit his fingers into the dips of his ribs, flatten his palms against Dean's hips. His thumbs strum soft circles into the connecting muscles. It's only when Cas's angel armor really starts being more of an annoyance than an adorable quirk that Dean starts considering what's next._ _

__Huh. Actually? Speaking of angel armor... has Dean ever actually just, well... undressed him?_ _

__Now that he's thinking about it, Dean likes the idea. He likes the thought of stripping all that angel down until he's just Cas, again. Just Dean's._ _

__And if that's a really fucking possessive thought, well, screw it. They've both made it pretty clear—Dean hopes, he really hopes—that they're each other's._ _

__He licks his lips and starts by pushing Cas's trench coat off his shoulders. Cas looks curious and surprised, but doesn't seem to really get with the program until Dean hooks a finger into that blue tie and draws the knot down and out with a soft 'thwip.' (Dammit. Still haven't gotten him a nicer tie. Gonna get on that as soon as it's not the apocalypse.)_ _

__"Should I help?" Cas asks, and there's only a little bit of teasing to it. "Or are you enjoying yourself?"_ _

__Dean slides his hands up Cas's sides until they're under the shoulders of his dark blue (gigantic) suit jacket. He slides it off, watching it fall neatly down Cas's arms. "Nope. I'm good."_ _

__Cas huffs, laughing quietly, but he goes slightly more pliant under Dean's fingers. Dean runs his hands over the button down shirt, enjoying the way body heat seems to melt right through it. He gently pops both cuffs and then opens one button at a time down Cas's chest. Occasionally, he stops to kiss a newly-exposed patch of skin. The buttons feel like they’re opening in the wrong direction, which makes him chuckle for just a second._ _

__He stops at Cas's belt, unbuckling it with a little fumble. Not a lot of women wear a belt like Cas does. It's fine, though: he's enjoying feeling the leather beneath his finger tips, finding the metal catch and pulling on the tongue of it. The way Cas's eyes go dark and he licks his lips as Dean does it also helps._ _

__Before doing anything else, he guides Cas to the bed, pushing just enough that Cas sits down on it. He looks up at Dean intensely. Cas wants things, Dean can feel it, but he's waiting on Dean. Dean kisses Cas again, just for the novelty of being able to do it while bending this far down: he’s not used to it anymore. Cas laughs into it, and Dean knows he totally picked up on that stray thought._ _

__They part with damp lips, panting, and Dean goes to his knees. There's some weird cognitive dissonance about having Cas’s head so far above his, especially when Cas sucks in a sharp breath of want. Dean smiles, but goes right for Cas's shoes. He wants those out of the way before he loses all his higher brain functions._ _

__Cas's shoes are more comfortable than they are fancy: ankle-high boots rather than leather wingtips that pinch. It's probably the only thing about his whole look that's sensible rather than, well... just odd. Dean peels his socks off, too—black regulation-height socks, gold-toe brand, five bucks to a dozen—and tucks them into the tops of the boots. It's an old habit, so there's always socks inside shoes if they need to jump right into them._ _

__Cas's eyes manage to be both soft and hot and blazingly blue at the same time as he looks down at Dean. One hand delicately touches Dean's hair—just with his fingertips, so gentle. "This is strange," he says, "this position. But I like it."_ _

__"You just say that 'cause I'm in the perfect position to suck your cock," Dean says, smirking._ _

__"Don't be crude about it," Cas mutters, wrinkling his nose._ _

__Dean scoots in between Cas's thighs—still clothed—and parts his knees with his hands, leaning in enough to drop a kiss on the soft curves of Cas's abs. They jump deliciously to his mouth, and he suppresses the urge to rub his face in them. "Why?" he asks, grinning wider. "'Cause it's true?"_ _

__"That's beside the point," Cas says, but his voice has a tremor that betrays his false indignation. "You're also very lovely to look at from this angle."_ _

__Dean resists hiding his head in Cas's stomach and looks up to wink. He unbuttons the button on Cas's pants, but then a little something occurs to him. It’s only worked a few times with women, mostly because their pants are too tight. Dean kisses down the light treasure trail of hair until his chin bumps into the fabric-blunted head of Cas's hard-on. Above him Cas gasps and his thighs quiver. Dean smiles and leans in to grab the zipper tab with his teeth. His hands land firm and hot on Cas's inner thighs, pressing them apart just so to give the fly some tension._ _

__Dean pulls the zipper down with excruciating slowness, using nothing but his mouth. Cas's hands flutter all around him until they finally land on top of Dean's, where they're holding him open._ _

__"That is…" Cas gasps. "That should not be as arousing as it is."_ _

__"Why not?" Dean asks. If he maybe asks with his lips a whisper away from the plain grey cotton of Cas's boxers—these _do_ change color, weirdly enough, and it's not like Cas ever actually changes his clothes, so Dean doesn't have an explanation for it—Dean's never bothered to hide that he plays dirty. "I want you to like it."_ _

__He does. God, he wants to find out every one of Cas's little hot buttons. Even the weird ones. Cas knows all of his, Dean's pretty sure, but Dean maybe hasn't been doing as good a job as he should be of seeing what lights his angel on fire._ _

__"Dean, you know I—oh!" Cas squeaks as Dean mouths at the firming column of him through his boxers. "Oh. I... always very much enjoy our intimate time together. _Very_ much."_ _

__Dean looks up through his lashes. "I know," he says pressing a slow kiss right over the tiny, growing wet patch, "I've worn the evidence myself now and then." He winks and then presses the flat of his tongue to where he'd just kissed. Cas shudders and his thighs shake around Dean's body. "I like it a lot, you enjoying it."_ _

__Dean spends his time nosing around the outline of Cas's cock, enjoying how it finishes filling out, the way the whole thing dips and bobs when Cas is fully hard. He presses hot, careful kisses down its length again, making sure to exhale at the right time. Cas's legs try to spread just a bit wider, but his pants just push back at him._ _

__Dean smiles against him. Well, that just won't do._ _

__He leans back enough that Cas makes a small, sad sound. It's so thoroughly unangelic that Dean has to laugh a little, sitting back on his heels and leaning his cheek against one of Cas's knees. But he reaches out and hooks his fingers in two of Cas's belt loops. "C'mon," he teases. "Let's get these off before you hulk out of them, or something."_ _

__"I'm not even sure that's possible," Cas muses. "But you can try to yank my shirt open one day, if you'd like. I'm fairly sure the buttons would be back by the next morning."_ _

__Oh. Huh. That hadn't occurred to him. They're going to maybe have to try that sometime._ _

__Cas is also way too lucid for someone who was having his cock licked through his boxers. He does shimmy awkwardly out of his pants, but no sooner have they come off his feet than Dean reaches up, plants a hand on his chest, and shoves. Cas sits back down hard on the edge of the bed and topples backwards onto his elbows, white shirt splaying open around him and sagging delicately off one shoulder._ _

__Fuck, that is such a good look on him._ _

__Dean nudges his way back between Cas's knees, pressing them apart with slow, even pressure. Cas swallows audibly at the entire thing. Dean kisses one soft inner thigh and then shoulders right back in. One hand traces lightly at Cas's balls, through his boxers. Cas’s legs widen a fraction more._ _

__Dean leaves a series of long sucking kisses along Cas's thigh, rising higher on his knees to move away from Cas's crotch. He splays both hands around Cas's hips, thumbs pressing into the covered notch of where his thighs join into his body. Dean leans up and over Cas's cock, his chest brushing against it, so that he can lick Cas's belly button before moving his way upwards, nipping gently at each bump of muscle nearby._ _

__Cas is making small, hoarse, wordless noises as Dean bites each of the soft, sleek rounds of muscle (damn, Cas’s body, damn). But his head really sinks back on his shoulders when Dean finds the lower arch of his rib on the left side._ _

__Dean tastes and kisses and bites as he goes; the center curve of one pec makes Cas gasp, his still-boxered hips lifting greedily upwards. By the time Dean is crouching upwards to lick at a nipple, he's shivering._ _

__Dean gets it. Hell, he might be shaking himself. But Cas isn't trying to touch him, even though his hands are clutching tightly enough to the sheets to make them squeak._ _

__Why hasn't Dean done this before? This is fucking amazing._ _

__Dean's just plotting how he's going to make his way to Cas's other nipple (he’s going to lick it until Cas squirms) when Cas places a tentative hand on his shoulder. Dean looks up and finds Cas almost shyly staring back at him._ _

__"Can you take your shirt off?" Cas asks. His voice has dropped at least an octave, and sounds like gravel might if it ever learned to speak. It travels down Dean's spine in delicious shivers._ _

__Dean smiles. "Yeah." He reaches behind his head and just pulls the whole thing off in one motion, tossing it over his shoulder. "Better?"_ _

__Cas's eyes are drowning in pupil right now, but that move makes him bite down on his lower lip until it blanches. He nods, a little too fast. "Yes. That's… yes."_ _

__The next noise he makes, when Dean mouths at the opposite nipple, their chest pressing warmly together and Cas's cock nudging his belly, is muffled and satisfying._ _

__One nipple is more sensitive than the other. Huh._ _

__Cas likes his being gently bitten at just as much as any girl Dean's done it to. Even better._ _

__Bodies are weird and fucking fantastic._ _

__Dean's more than a little hard by now, enough so that he's unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, but that's it. He's far more interested in seeing exactly how Cas gasps when he sucks a nipple into his mouth and then runs the rough pad of his tongue over it._ _

__Cas trembles all over when Dean blows gently over it, and his hips lift just enough to roll against Dean once, but then he settles back down. Cas is biting his lip again when Dean looks up. His whole face is the picture of concentration, staring down at Dean like Cas can't quite believe he's there. Dean understands the feeling._ _

__Cas's hands have returned to clutching at the sheet, Dean gently grasps one of them and guides it around to his own bare back. Cas instantly goes, spreading his hand open and warm right over Dean's lower ribs._ _

__That was what Dean really needed and wanted—that contact, that touch. It makes him feel needy, and a little silly. But it's okay to be a little needy and a little silly here, in this space._ _

__He shimmies his way back up to standing and hovers over Cas, not sure if he wants to kiss him, bite his neck, or, hell, suck on his earlobe..._ _

__Huh. He hasn't done that. Earlobe it is._ _

__Cas almost giggles—a weirdly adorable sound in his deep voice—when Dean puffs into his ear, but it trails off into a moan when Dean skims the upper curve of his ear with his teeth. Cas's hands tighten on his ribs, tight enough to ache just a little._ _

__It's perfect._ _

__Dean gets caught up in the feel of Cas's neck under his lips, tracing the contours of the corded muscle that leads to the notch right in the center of his chest. Cas's other hand has been sneaking over, slowly slipping under the back waistband of Dean’s jeans and edging them slowly down._ _

__Dean's not sure what he likes more, the feel of Cas's long fingers through his boxers or the freedom from his jeans, even if they were already unzipped, from his aching cock. Fuck, he's hard. He has to pause, drop his head onto Cas's shoulder and pant for breath to clear his head. There's about a million things he wants to try, but he's only got so much strength to resist just rubbing against Cas until they both come. (Again.)_ _

__So he needs to figure out the rest of his game plan now. Cas strokes his fingers just under the band of Dean’s boxers. Okay, Dean first needs Cas to do that for another thirty or forty minutes._ _

__Cas says, innocently, "Okay," and Dean realizes that he said that aloud._ _

__Dean laughs and nips Cas's collarbone, hard enough to leave a small red mark. The way that makes Cas's hips buck against his stomach, though, makes Dean's head go fuzzy._ _

__"Ain't about me, sweetheart," he mutters. "What do you want?"_ _

__Cas looks at him, dazed. "You?"_ _

__Dean drops his head onto Cas's chest, because Jesus, that kind of talk is not helpful. Okay, okay, Cas wants him? Well, Dean's been thinking about a couple of things—including that first time they had a bed, and all the time in the world. Dean reaches up, finding where they stashed the lube two nights ago. (Under a pillow? Really?)_ _

__"Okay," Dean says, just a little breathless. "How about you be the big spoon this time?"_ _

__Cas stares at him, blinking a few more times, before swallowing and nodding fervently. "That..." He licks his lips. "That would be lovely. Yes."_ _

__Alright, so Dean considers maybe teasing him just a little more by pulling the same trick with Cas's boxers that he did with the zipper: taking the band gently between his teeth and sliding it slowly down Cas’s hips and thighs. Dean thinks it’d be kind of an awkward shuffle backwards and down, but from the way Cas's eyes are fixed on Dean's mouth, he really doesn't give a damn. His head rests again Cas’s cotton-clad hip, his cock running a hot line along Dean's cheek, his temple. He’s just about to give it the old college try, mouth salivating for the results when Cas tugs at his shoulders gently and there’s something in his eyes that pulls Dean to him. Oh well, another time._ _

__(Another time. 'Cause hell yeah, there are gonna be other times. Lots of 'em. Dean tries not to consider why he can think that, but can't think of sitting and having a cup of coffee with Cas before he heads off to work.)_ _

__Dean straightens up, leaving Cas in just that open shirt and his damp, distended boxers—legs just a little apart, white shirt sagging down both elbows now, cock hard and wet at the tip, and making a fucking _statement_ right through the cloth. Dean's mouth comes open and what he's actually thinking comes out. "Fuck, Cas," he breathes, clutching the lube in one hand. "You should dress like that all the time."_ _

__Cas smiles, one eyebrow raised, as he looks down at himself. "I suspect other people might object and the public indecency charges might get in the way of saving the world."_ _

__Dean frowns, and strokes his chin consideringly. "I think we could make it work."_ _

__Cas sits up, and Dean can't tear his eyes away from the play of muscle on his stomach as those abs contract. His dick also jumps with the movement, leaving a sticky trail in its wake. "How about," Cas says, eyes hungry and dark, "you take your pants off and convince me."_ _

__Dean's boots and pants are off so fast he almost hamstrings himself. He does actually trip, but Cas catches him before he can go too far. The fact that Cas can hold him up like that, even with his grace suppressed, is endlessly fascinating to Dean, because he can feel that seems to be _muscle moving_ , not angel stillness. Yeah, something he definitely needs to explore later. For now, he just finishes climbing into Cas's lap like that's exactly what he planned, and kisses him deep and messy._ _

__Their cocks rub and bump together through two sticky layers of cloth as they shift for a better position, just barely enough to be a terrible, wonderful tease. Both of Cas's hands are splayed across his ribs, now, as he sits up. Dean's all but perched on his thighs like he isn't a six-foot-plus guy, and Cas is just looking like he loves him there._ _

__Cas’s arms come out like he’s going to try to drag Dean right up against him again, but Dean puts a hand on his chest. “Nope,” he announces, hopping off his lap._ _

__Cas’s eyes go wide and wounded. “Wh-what?”_ _

__“Dude, I’ve got your number now, it’s like you’re _trying_ to make me come in my boxers again,” he complains, laughing, and yanking down his shorts fast enough that they almost catch on his cock on the way down._ _

__By the time he looks back up, Cas’s are off already, flicking off his ankle and sailing off to hook onto a pile of books. He’s gesturing eagerly for Dean to get back in his lap, and how happy he looks about it, well… okay, Dean doesn’t even know how to process how good that makes him feel._ _

__Cas _should_ get to be happy, dammit. _ _

__Dean climbs back on board and looks down at the small space between their bodies, grinning at the sight of their cocks side by side—goddamn, that's hot. "One day," he manages, as Cas does his best to suck Dean's soul out through the joint between his neck and his shoulder, "We're gonna manage something other than rubbing against each other, I swear to—"_ _

__"I'll thank you not to swear to Him in this setting," Cas mutters, adding just a bit of teeth to the hickey. "But as a whole I agree with the sentim—ahh." He trails off as Dean puts a little more pressure into the swivel of his hips._ _

__Dean sighs into the blend of pleasure—sharp and distinct on his neck, low and diffuse on his dick. Dean could maybe just come like this and be happy, but he's also looking forward to trying new things. Trying new things _with_ Cas. It's not that he thinks he needs to prove something to Cas, but being vulnerable in front of other people is kind of a big deal for Dean. It's as much of a gesture as Dean can make, sometimes, and in this case? It's a gesture he's sure they'll both enjoy. A lot._ _

__With them almost skin to skin, wrapped around each other the way they already are, Dean can almost imagine how it's going to feel: Cas pressing flat against his back, his cock pressing between Dean’s thighs, and rubbing. He shudders._ _

__Cas's work on his neck is gonna leave a mark. Dean loves that, but he's getting just a touch too distracting. Dean runs his fingers through Cas's hair, kisses his hairline, and leans towards his ear. "Cas, time to lay down and get that cock someplace new, before we forget and come like this. Again."_ _

__Cas, the asshole that he is, blinks mock-innocently and says, "But, Dean, I so enjoy the sight of you with your skin sticky and—"_ _

__Dean's afraid that what Cas is about to say is gonna be so completely unsexy, and yet somehow still _turn Dean on like a bedside lamp_ , what the fuck, that he presses a hand over Cas's mouth before whatever Cas is thinking of actually comes out._ _

__He feels Cas smile against his palm. Damn, this is such a mistake._ _

__But Cas doesn't lick his hand. He purses out his lips and kisses it, instead._ _

__Because Dean's angel is a damned sap._ _

__He lets Dean climb off without any more complaint than a soft little sigh, this time. But without their skin touching, Dean, all of a sudden, feels the chill of the room, the sheets under his shins, and the fact that he just kind of asked Cas to fuck his thighs. How did Cas do this? He said it so easy, curled up against Dean like it was nothing._ _

__"Dean?" Cas calls to him, yanking him out of his thoughts. When he focuses, Dean sees Cas just laying there on his side, head propped up on a hand, white outline of his open shirt framing his arms and shoulders. He’s the most gorgeous vision Dean's seen in a long time, Cas's long lines and slight curves coming together to create the outline of a body Dean wants to study every inch of. With his tongue._ _

__"I'm here," Dean croaks. "Just… taking a second."_ _

__Cas pats the bed in front of him, bottle of lube in his hand. "Come back to bed?"_ _

__Dean has to close his eyes and shudder just a bit because Cas's low, aroused, rumble is just so fucking hot, _especially_ when it's asking him to come to bed._ _

__Dean knee-walks towards him and lies down, turning his back towards Cas. Hard to say why getting into this position feels a little awkward, now, when hell, Dean's gone to sleep spooning and being spooned by Cas._ _

__(He'd say "more times than he can count," but that's a lie. Dean can count them all.)_ _

__Cas mumbles something not quite intelligible into the back of his shoulder and scoots closer until they're cupped together. Dean can feel the hard column against, but not between, his butt cheeks, and it's making his toes tingle and curl._ _

__In a good way. It's good. Yeah._ _

__"How, uh..." he starts, then stops as Cas nuzzles his nape._ _

__"I've never done this, either," Cas admits, "not from this side."_ _

__First for both of them, then. That's... pretty awesome. "So... do what feels good, then, huh?" Dean grins over his shoulder, feeling, weirdly, better. "I think we can do that."_ _

__"Yes," Cas says, dryly, against the click of the cap on the bottle, "we're very good at doing what feels good." He kisses Dean's shoulder and one hand creeps down to Dean's thigh. "Open, please."_ _

__Dean turns his face into the pillow he's grabbed for comfort. So damn polite. He shifts his legs so the one on top, his left, lifts up and out, slightly. There's no good or comfortable way to keep the space open but Dean bends at the knee and rests his calf behind him, on Cas's legs._ _

__Cas's hand, slick and warm, glides along the insides of his thighs and it shouldn't feel good like that, but it does. There's soft, tiny kisses all along Dean's shoulders and neck. It's just enough to distract him so that he jumps when Cas's fingers press up into the space between his legs, slicking up his balls and everything nearby. For fun, it seems, Cas rolls his hand in slow circles for a few seconds._ _

__Dean curses into his pillow, sucking in giant breaths as Cas just casually lights up his nervous system like it's nothing._ _

__"It's weird," Dean says at a mumble into his pillow. He realizes his mistake when Cas sucks in a little sharp breath; his hand stops moving immediately. "No, no, not... not you. S'good. That's good. Don't stop."_ _

__With Cas’s fingers all lubed-up like this, Dean can't feel his calluses, but he can feel the weight of the fingers pressing just behind his balls, and the moment of hesitation before Cas starts exploring again. It's teasing little slippery brushes, back and forth, that Dean sort of wants to move into, but he's not quite sure how. Cas moves his hand into the little angle where Dean’s thighs hit his body, and it tickles, but... not._ _

__"What's weird, then?" Cas asks, in a whisper against his shoulder._ _

__"That, y'know. Like... it's not my cock. You know? Not even my balls. Never really, uh... thought too much 'bout how that'd feel, and it's weird that it feels so good." Dean's pretty sure that he's rambling into the pillow against his face, but it's easier to say it here than into the air. "Does, though," he adds, just in case Cas takes it as a reason to stop._ _

__"The human body can be a miraculous thing." Cas murmurs and his lips are right by Dean's ear, brushing gently. Oh, that feels good too._ _

__The fingers continue exploring, probably for longer than Cas actually needs to slick the entire space up. But Dean's not sure, because time has become strange and taffy-like, and he's having trouble tracking the seconds as they pass._ _

__Eventually though, Cas pulls away. Dean feels weirdly hollow without the warm pressure of a hand wedged between his legs. But then Cas is curling up behind him, a wall of soft skin molding against Dean’s back, warm and firm; Dean sighs into it. Something slick and blunt starts pressing against him, just at the bottom of his ass, and then it slides between his closed legs. Dean doesn’t remember closing his legs, but it’s good._ _

__Cas is breathing heavily in his ear, hitching just slightly with each breath in, and making these tiny little grunts as he fucks in and out between Dean's legs. If that weren't enough, Cas has curled his arm around Dean's body, lube-wet palm holding tight against his stomach, pulling Dean in tighter. With every blunt thrust in, Cas presses up, and his cock slides right against the back of Dean's balls._ _

__Dean did not expect it to feel this good before Cas even put a hand on his cock. He remembers Cas's frustrated grump when Dean stopped to ask questions last time, and he gets it, now. Holy fuck, it's just this low-level simmer of pleasure, but it keeps coming and coming._ _

__Dean can't orgasm like this—he doesn't think so, anyway—but that sort of doesn't matter. These little nudges and presses and slides Cas is holding him in place for are turning into these little grinding thrusts, and from the low, rough sounds it sure seems like _Cas_ thinks it feels amazing._ _

__Dean remembers just what Cas said about this: "Someplace slick. Someplace warm. Someplace tight." Hm, yeah, okay. He presses his legs together just a little more, muscle bunching. It tucks Cas up against that spot behind his balls just a little tighter, gives him a little more to push against._ _

__Behind him, Cas shudders. "Dean," he murmurs. The next thrust comes with a little more force, their bodies molding. The head of Cas's cock shoves hard against that stretch of skin he was petting earlier, and that's just that tiny little bit more intense._ _

__Dean hears himself groan. "Yeah," he moans out loud after a second hard thrust hits the same spot. "Like that." He's still not sure he could come like this, but he's more than happy to drift here, floating in good feelings and listening to Cas slowly lose it._ _

__The hand on Dean's stomach shifts to his hip, Cas's fingers folding over the bone and muscle easily. Cas buries his face into the spot between Dean's neck and shoulder, gasping quietly. The hold on Dean's hip allows for a more consistent sharp thrum of pleasure each time Cas thrusts. Okay, maybe they're approaching a point where Dean _could_ come without trying too hard, and that's just fucking amazing right there._ _

__Dean’s cock is hard and leaking and some of Cas's thrusts angle him a little forward, the hard tap of hips pushing Dean a little facedown. It's just enough for the head of his dick to glance against the sheets and that? That's very nice._ _

__Dean thinks about reaching down and putting a hand on himself, giving himself a little bit more—something tight. But he doesn't need that—maybe doesn't even really want it, with this feeling like it's about his whole body rather than just his cock for once. But maybe... he reaches over with his hand instead, and presses it over the back of Cas's, holding it hard against his hip._ _

__Dean doesn't expect that without that hand bracing himself on the bed, it puts him just a little off-balance. Cas's next firm thrust tips Dean a little bit more onto his front. He catches himself on his palm before he goes all the way prone, but not before Cas's next thrust goes a little wild, and Dean's dick rubs a long streak against the sheets._ _

__Fuck. That's _good.__ _

__Dean leans into the next one, and the next. The next time he moans, it's full into the pillow, because—somehow, he's not sure how and he doesn't care—he's full on his belly, and Cas isn't just behind him: he's on top of him, braced on his arms on either side._ _

__With each roll of hips, Dean's cock drags against the sheets with just the right amount of friction, and all it does is inspire him to keep his thighs clenched as tight as possible so Cas never stops. Cas still hits all of those spots that keep Dean's body drowning in pleasure, the blunt end of his cock rubbing along behind Dean's cock and balls like the world's best inside-out hand job. Only, with his weight on Dean’s back and hips, it’s Dean's whole body._ _

__A little, desperate moan is dragged out of Cas's mouth with each thrust, and Dean feels each one against his back, like the most perfect extra vibration to keep everything revved up to 90. "Dean," Cas eventually groans. "I need—Can I? I want to—"_ _

__"What, baby?" Dean asks breathlessly, far too distracted to care about that particular nickname. "What d'ya need?" He's slurring, fucked-out on pleasure and he hasn't even come yet._ _

__Cas stops, barely. There's still a slight rocking, like he can't quite bring himself to fully freeze. One hand moves from its spot bracing itself next to Dean and touches Dean's ass, fingers tracing the line down the middle, brushing against his hole. Dean shudders. "Just like we've been doing."_ _

__Dean doesn't quite know what that means, but since he doesn't want Cas to stop either, he says, "Yeah, yeah." Whatever it is, he's pretty sure he'll like it—it's not like they've done anything yet that he hasn't liked._ _

__He's still not quite sure what he agreed to when Cas shifts around. But Dean knows for sure that he makes a little growl of complaint when Cas lifts a little away and sits back, pulling that blunt, thick curve out from the hollow between Dean's legs. It leaves him slippery with lube and feeling sort of... empty._ _

__Which is weird, because hell, he didn't have anything _in_ him, just sort of... dammit, Dean really can't think when they're doing this._ _

__But Cas pets his ass again, weirdly soothing, murmuring, "Like this." And Dean's breath rushes out when Cas parts his ass cheeks with one hand, and trickles a cool line of lube between them with the other._ _

__Oh, fuck. That's... the opposite of soothing._ _

__Cas's fingers show up just long enough to spread the lube around. They skim briefly over Dean’s opening before disappearing. And then Cas shifts around a little more, and there's a hot cock pressing slow and steady between Dean’s butt cheeks._ _

__Briefly, Dean worries that he's just agreed to something he's not ready for. But he knows Cas would absolutely have used complete sentences for that, and just asked, outright. Any real worries Dean has are obliterated when Cas finally moves, his cock just _rubbing_ all along the entire seam, comfortably pressed between the muscles of Dean's ass._ _

__"Okay?" Cas asks, voice trembling. "Is this good?" He's directing Dean's thighs to spread just a little. It settles Cas right against him, the swell of Dean's ass right into the cradle of Cas's lap._ _

__Dean waits for another slow thrust before nodding. With the next one, Cas's cock rides from taint to tailbone with a rolling wave of his hips, and at the same time, he wedges Dean right down into the bedding in the most perfect way possible._ _

__Dean barely keeps himself from saying "Oh, God," and slurs something else—what, he has no idea—into the pillow he's got his face in instead. Yeah, that's... that's different. The rhythm of it is familiar: it's definitely fucking, but it's not... nothing else about it is familiar. The slow slide behind his balls, the dip into the crease of his ass, the almost-shocking rub against his hole, then all the way up to his tailbone. Back and forth. Hell, Dean thinks the insides of his _ass cheeks_ might be sensitive now, what the hell._ _

__He groans when the rim of Cas's cock catches, just barely, on the edge of his pucker as he pulls back down, and the next time it comes, Dean pushes up against it._ _

__Dean thinks it's probably the first time since they started today that he actually moves rather than just holding on and letting Cas do what he wants with him (which, shit, now that Dean thinks about it, when does he ever do that? But he was enjoying the hell out of it). But doing _that_ stripes Dean’s cock, unexpectedly, against the sheets under him._ _

__Okay, he can almost definitely come like this._ _

__Cas is plastered against him again, mouth open and hot against the back of Dean's neck. He whines, quiet and high, with each thrust. Dean finds his thighs sliding just a little further apart with the next firm roll and—oh._ _

__Okay. That's—Dean whines this time, hips rocking up and then back down against the bed. That's gonna be enough, right there. "Fuck," he grunts, "fuck that's—don't stop, Cas. Just like that."_ _

__Cas thrusts, sharply, before getting himself back under some control again. His hip motions aren't gentle, either, but the roll of them feels better than a sharper slap. It keeps all the sensations pressing against Dean as he rocks with him._ _

__They don't speed up—partially because Dean's not sure they can, partially because this slow, climbing rhythm is so damned good. It's like the opposite of when Cas's hand met his handprint the other day. That was so fucking hot it nearly buckled Dean onto the floor, but it was sharp and soul-deep and over impossibly fast._ _

__This? This is Cas's whole body moving hot between his legs, his thighs wedging Dean's open. It's skin and heat; it's visceral and a little messy. Cas is mumbling something behind him, a little incoherent, about how good this is, how much he wants it. Dean presses his cock into the mattress, his ass against the firm line of Cas's dick, and just... rides into it._ _

__It's everything Dean thinks he ever really wanted sex to be, even if he only ever got close to it before, and he wants this to last._ _

__Dean throws a hand back and over his head, fingers threading into Cas's hair, holding on, holding close. The slow-spreading pleasure is climbing higher and higher, and Dean just needs a little bit of a tether. Cas must feel it, too, because one of his hands moves from clutching the bed for support to Dean's hip. Cas is hot and sweaty against Dean's side and ass, and the hand holds him _just so_ , and lets Cas's cock manage the same angle between Dean’s ass cheeks more than twice in a row. It keeps Dean's cock rubbing on the mattress in just the right way without pressing too hard into it._ _

__That hand holding them together is what starts the slow climb to orgasm. Instead of the slow trickle upwards of pleasure, Dean can feel each rise, each roll of Cas's hips step him up a little higher, a slowly winding staircase of gasping moans. "Hmm," he groans. "Keep going, s'perfect."_ _

__Cas nods against his back, then plasters hot, distracted kisses all over Dean's shoulders. An especially good roll of hips—Dean's started clenching now and then, because fuck, that also feels good—distracts Cas all over again._ _

__Dean gets his other arm wedged under him just enough to give him a little more leverage to push back, get his muscles tightened up _just right_. It takes some of the pressure off his cock, which is already getting a little oversensitive, a little too good, a little too..._ _

__"Cas... Cas, c'mon," he coaxes, and Dean's not even sure what he's begging for. "C'mon, baby."_ _

__(The nicknames, what the hell.)_ _

__Cas makes a little chuffing, laughing sound against the hot patch his breath is making between Dean's shoulder blades, and his next thrust almost knocks Dean forward against the bed. "Dean, Dean," he groans. "I'm so... so close. Should..."_ _

__"Yeah," Dean agrees. He knows just what Cas means. He thinks._ _

__Cas whimpers a little at whatever his idea is. Dean's still pretty sure he knows what it is, and yeah, that's uh… that's really hot on his end too. On the next roll Dean does lose his balance again. But that's okay, because he can feel Cas slowly losing it, hands trembling, breathing gasping, cock pulsing harder and wetter with each thrust._ _

__Dean wants him to come so badly—wants to feel it hot and wet against his skin. He wants Cas to feel so good, he can't stop himself. Dean clenches his lower muscles again, with all he’s got, and somehow, that just makes it feel better in his _dick._ _ _

__Fuck, the human body _is fucking amazing_._ _

__"F—fuck. _Dean,_ " Cas cries out, and he bites just enough to feel good against the meat of Dean's shoulder._ _

__Dean doesn't think he's ever heard Cas swear before, not like that—he wasn't even sure he could imagine it out of his proper angel. The idea that Cas is turned-on enough to cuss, to bite, fuck, yes, yes._ _

__Dean cries out, low and harsh and raspy. He feels it all the way down to his goddamned knees when Cas loses rhythm, when his hips stutter and, for just a second, Cas freezes. Or at least, the motion of his hips freezes. And holy shit, holy fucking shit, Dean feels it when, wedged against his ass, Cas's cock pulses and jerks._ _

__The first jet of come hits Dean on the tailbone, startlingly hot. Cas moves and shifts in arrhythmic little thrusts against Dean's ass, moaning against his back. The next, and the next, and the next, hit Dean in his crack, trickling down and in as Cas moves and shudders and cries out helplessly behind him, the glide of it into Dean's crease wet and noisy and obscene as Cas fucks into it and doesn't stop._ _

__Oh God, oh shit, so that's what that's like. The bite mark on Dean's shoulder throbs, and he doesn't know if he should move, or if he even can—frozen-up, marked, gasping because of how much he likes this._ _

__It's hot, sparking hot, all down his spine. Dean's body is tightening up. Each sloppy rock into and against him as Cas comes feels better and better, and he's no longer being pushed against the bed so it's just all about Cas, now. Cas rubbing and coming and— fuck—marking him, getting off right on top of Dean._ _

__Dean shudders. Fuck, he needs to come soon, but Cas is almost dead weight against him, trembling, so all Dean can do is lay there, shivering in pleasure. It's amazing._ _

__Cas does move though, sooner than Dean expects, or maybe sooner than he wants. The hand that's definitely left bruises on Dean's hip moves, dips into the space between them where Cas has pulled away just a little, trailing slippery down Dean’s tailbone, his crack._ _

__"Can I? Cas asks, but his fingers don't stop. They press gently between Dean's cheeks, right at the pucker, but not going any further than slow rubbing. His fingers are wet._ _

__"Yes," Dean gasps out, lifting his hips as much as possible—which is ‘barely.’ "Fuck, Cas I'm so close, so close, I just need—"_ _

__Cas presses in._ _

__It's not a tease. It's not a stroke. Then the tip of his finger is _in_ Dean, warm and slippery._ _

__Dean has just about a second to realize, to think about tightening up, before he just... doesn't. He can't push back against Cas's hand like this, pinned down, but he can breathe out, and out, and..._ _

__Even though it's not the first time, the breach of Cas's finger as it presses into him is strange and intense, and _yes, yes, yes_. Dean's whole body shivers into the slip of it. It's not painful at all, but God, that's such a weird, slick, wrong-right feeling. Dean knows his panting is loud enough to fill the room, his cock is jerking and dripping onto the bed underneath him, and he's got come all over his ass._ _

__He's so close to coming, and he doesn't even know what he wants—if he wants to come now, or if there's more, if—_ _

__Cas's knuckles brush his ass cheeks, almost a nuzzle, and Dean whimpers. He's so close. "M-more," he hears himself say. "Please—"_ _

__Cas kisses his shoulder, right where the bite mark stings, and presses in again. Another knuckle pops through with ease, and Dean whimpers, biting his lip so he doesn't get too loud._ _

__"That's it, Dean," Cas husks. He pulls his finger out just a bit and then pushes back in, slow and steady, until there’s no further he can go. He does it two more times and then it's a second finger._ _

__It stretches Dean just enough—just that bit of extra spark, and it's almost enough. Dean’s so close. He knows that he could just shove his hand under his body and fuck his fist until his eyes roll, but that's not what he _wants_._ _

__Cas crooks his fingers. Dean feels every moment of it, every little motion, and it's so good he almost can't stand it. That's when Cas finds that spot again, the one that sends a shock of deep pressure through his body and Dean's entire body tightens up—one long line of tension that feels so good._ _

__Cas presses again and fuck, this is really like nothing else, nothing Dean’s ever experienced before Cas. Before he really has time to brace against it, his whole body spasms, and he comes hard, feeling his cock jerking beneath him._ _

__The world goes blank and white and silky around the edges for a long time, punctuated by hot pulses, over and over. When Dean stirs back into himself, his cock is nestled in a slippery wet spot, and Cas's fingers are still stirring gently inside him in little rocking motions._ _

__Nothing too intense, though. Nothing too much. Even though everything feels like it’s too much, with Cas._ _

__"Fuck," Dean slurs. He should get out of this wet spot. He should sit up. He should..._ _

__Nope, he should stay right here and shiver and ache and just enjoy the way he feels open, filled, with a bite sharp on his back and his hip aching with little fingerprint bruises. Cas doesn't seem to be aiming his petting motions inside Dean anymore, but he’s not taking his fingers away, and he doesn’t stop moving them. Every so often the tip of a finger still nudges against something that makes Dean's cock—still mostly hard, wow, what the hell—dribble a little more against the bed._ _

__After a little while, Cas kisses him again—this time, right on the rise of his ass—and very carefully pulls his fingers out. Dean grumbles and squeezes. It's weirdly empty again, but... still good. Still very good._ _

__Cas slides his hands over Dean's sweaty sides, gently turning him. Dean shivers a little as his cock slides a few more times across wet sheets before his body gets with the program and turns. Cas still has that sex flush all over his body; his lips still look bitten and swollen, and his eyes are so full of affection Dean might drown in it._ _

__Dean's sort of completely uncoordinated, but that's okay. Cas feels just as clumsy as he encourages Dean to wrap a lazy leg around his hips and curl in close. Yes, this is good, too. Closeness. Dean is flying high, still, but Cas needing him close after that is almost better._ _

__Their mostly-soft dicks touch in the middle, sending little shivers through both of them. Dean can't even imagine getting it back up again after that, but even the notion is kind of a pretty thought to consider later. There's a brief moment, maybe an almost-shine of white/blue out of the corner of his eye, and Dean realizes that Cas must have cleaned up the worst of the mess.They're both still sweaty, and a little sticky in places. But the sheets are dry, and so is Dean's ass. Also Cas’s shirt, which would explain the tiny little scrapes and bruises he can feel forming all down his back from the buttons. Dean laughs quietly and runs his hands down the now wrinkled-but-clean shirt. Cas laughs right along with him._ _

__As for the rest of the clean up, yeah, okay, at the time, that was fun, but Dean's cool with come not drying all over his back and ass... though the idea is great, and they're definitely doing it again. But they need to like… start bringing towels to bed. Or wet wipes? Yeah, maybe they need a wet wipes pack for the bedroom. They’ve already got one for the Impala..._ _

__"I love you," Cas says, almost shyly. "And I would choose you, Dean, every time."_ _

__Dean blinks. He sort of knows what Cas is talking about, but... not. His mouth opens. He knows what he's supposed to say here—maybe he even wants to; hell, he's said it aloud before, hasn't he?—but Cas dips in and kisses his lower lip gently before anything comes out._ _

__"I just had to say that," Cas says, "before we sleep."_ _

__"We?" Dean slurs, his voice hoarse and weird around the corners._ _

__Cas chuckles softly, and nuzzles their noses together. "Dean," he announces, solemnly, "even an angel needs rest after something like _that_ , and I'm not that much of an angel anymore."_ _

__"Mine, anyway," Dean announces, and tucks his face into Cas's neck._ _

__He's asleep, caught in dreamland even before Cas's hand settles back on the curve of his waist._ _

__Dean doesn't dream, though. His sleep is deep and fogged and easy. At some point he blinks one eye open, and catches sight of, absurdly, a weird little spike of hair poking up over Cas's forehead. He frowns and smooths it down before curling up again._ _

__So Bobby pounding on the bedroom door is a rude awakening._ _

__Bobby yelling, "Get up, ya damn idjit lovebirds, your fool brother's gone and, fuck, gone!" is an even worse one._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ami:** MWUAHAHAHHAH-- *koff* ahem. Welcome to the last few episodes of the season!
> 
> Also: SEVEN, SEVEN ORGASMS WITHOUT GETTING NAKED. For those of you keeping score at home.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Ami:** Honestly, when we got to this point in our writing I was like "Yes tia, we are almost there. It can't be more than 15k from here!"
> 
> I was a fool of course. A naive fool.

Dean is running downstairs before he’s even finishing tying his shoes or buckling his belt. Cas is also so flustered that he doesn't angel his clothes on, just yanks them on like a human. Or maybe he’s conserving strength. Either way, he's also down the stairs before his tie is tied or either of his jackets are on.

In another time, Dean would find that so hot: Cas all discombobulated and rumpled like that is a treat. But right now though there's only the sour feeling in his stomach that he's lost his little brother forever.

Bobby looks about as flustered and worried as Dean has ever seen him. There's a piece of paper in his hands, crinkled around the edges. "Damn fool went and took plan F," he announces.

Dean grabs the paper from Bobby and frowns. "We didn't have a plan F."

Bobby raises an eyebrow. "Exactly."

Dean closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before reading. He can feel Cas come up behind him, one hand gently resting on his lower back.

 _Guys,_ the note says. _I'm not being coerced. I'm sober and I'm sane. But right now, we don't have anything other than knowledge we can't use. I'm going to go get some that we can._ And, at the end, _Be safe. I'll call._

It's signed, simply, _Sam_.

"Sonofabitch" Dean roars, and turns, plowing his fist into the wall. The crack of solidity not giving way against his knuckles shocks the white noise in his head, brings him back to himself. Cas doesn't follow the violence of the motion—doesn't try to stop him. Neither does Bobby.

But Dean's done, panting, his hand shaking and twinging with pain. He didn't scrape hard enough to break skin; he doesn't think he punched hard enough to crack bone. He grabs for his phone—

He doesn't have his phone.

He's about to storm back up towards their room when Cas holds the flip-phone out to him on the palm of one hand, still with his shirt draped open around his shoulders.

Dean maybe falls in love a little bit more in that moment. 

He snatches the phone, dials, and leaves a blistering voice mail that if Ruby overhears won't tell her more than how fucking pissed and scared Dean is for his baby brother. He's not a fan of this plan, and he will try to pull the plug on this plan as soon as possible, but no way is he putting Sam into more danger because the little shit ran off and just had to do this all by himself.

When he's done, Dean ends the call and violently misses phones he could slam down. Cas plucks the thing from his fingers (probably a good idea) and then rubs across Dean’s aching knuckles. The pre-bruise ache disappears.

Dean looks up to tell Cas not to waste grace on him, but he stalls when he sees Cas's frustration and sadness at the situation. Now that Cas has a hand on him, Dean can feel how Cas thinks he's failed Dean in some way, like there’s anyone who should know Sam’s mind better than Dean himself. And, fuck, if that doesn't take some of the heat out of Dean's ire.

They take a breather to finish getting dressed and Cas presses a mug of coffee and an egg sandwich into Dean's hands. He desperately wants the coffee, and not so much with the food, but he eats it anyway.

"Okay," Dean says, feeling a bit better, at least physically. The creases in his jeans when he moves sometimes press against the bruises on his hip and that's also starting to be soothing. "If this were for real, I'd start tracking him right away."

Bobby also has an egg sandwich in his hands, and specks of it in his beard. "What d'you mean if it ain't real? Seems real damned 'real' to me, dumbass."

Cas gives Bobby a half-glare of a sideways glance, but Dean's not taking any offense.

"Yeah, well, he knows, right? He knows that Lilith's death ain't just endgame, it's the end of all things, and that Ruby..." Dean looks up, and at Bobby's face. Then at Cas's. His gut drops. "You think he still believes in Ruby."

Cas doesn't meet his eyes.

Dean scrapes a hand against his own scalp and yanks, hard. "Fuck," he hisses, and turns away. "Cas, is there—can you track him? Somehow?"

Cas, if anything, goes smaller. He looks at his hands. His eyes flick just once to the curve of Dean's hip, the line of his spine. Dean wonders what he sees there. "Not Sam, no. Not unless he prays to me. And... as I am, possibly not even then. He’s warded, and…"

He trails off. Dean gets it. Sam’s warded, but not in the way Dean is: he hasn’t got Castiel’s name written across his tailbone like the damned Batsignal.

"Don't feel bad, son," Bobby says gruffly. "That hex bag stuff Sam filled us in on last night would be plenty even if you were at full power."

Dean sees Cas blink at being called 'son,' but otherwise doesn't make a big deal of it. Dean, on the other hand, sends Bobby a grateful look that the man has earned ten times over since Dean came home with his very own angel.

Bobby puts his plate down and rolls his eyes. "Damn fool, no wonder he got all talky last night. He was planning this from the start."

Dean closes his eyes and resists punching the wall again, because that's good news, in a way. That means Sam trusts them enough with this information, right? He told them about Ruby’s habits; he even left a note. He trusts Dean to follow but not too fast. Damn it.

"Fine. Let's see how fast we can find him, and go from there." Dean grabs the nearest computer.

Dean knows that people think of him as the dumb brother (and he is). But when it comes to people, he's used to grabbing information from them fast, snatched in between moments of conversation and fighting for their freakin' lives. He's always had to remember what someone said, sometimes for days, without writing things down. Places. Times. Dates. Phone numbers.

He thinks back and starts to jot down the hotels that Sam mentioned—hotels, 'cause Ruby doesn't stay at no-tell motels if they can help it, goddammit. All the safehouses and hideyholes. Every town that spilled out of Sam's mouth. And he starts searching.

When the computer stops being helpful—how the fuck does Sam even do this?—Dean stands up and yanks out a map, spreading it on the table in front of him and starting to mark it up, a little viciously, with pins. Cas eases the laptop towards himself.

"I have some skills in obscure research," he says, quietly, sitting down beside Dean. Bobby is thumping around upstairs—something to do with calling up the hunters he knows, though how he's gonna do that without letting them know Sam's off the reservation is gonna be a fuckin' miracle. Their thighs brush. "How can I help?"

God. Dean loves him.

Cas is sitting behind the computer, scouring the surrounding states for demonic omens, and Dean is slowly going insane, plotting various pit stops Sam or Ruby might take, when Bobby clomps into the room.

"Police found my junker," he announces. “Abandoned in an alley in Jamestown, North Dakota."

Dean closes his marker and drops it on the map. "He's switching up. Any other cars stolen in Jamestown?"

Bobby nods. "Two. 1999 Honda Civic, blue. Nice and anonymous, like Sam likes."

Dean thinks about that. Is Sam going to go full stop, act like he's really trying to throw Dean off the trail, or is he gonna take it slightly easier? "What was the other one?"

"White oh-five Escalade with custom rims. It's a neon sign." Bobby shakes his head: they both know that’d be a dumb choice for anyone trying to stay off the radar. 

"You're right." Dean nods. "He'd never take that. Which, if he's taking this play act all the way, then that's exactly what he did."

Bobby gives him a curious look, and says, "You think?" with a little 'hmph,' but he doesn't argue.

Cas just puts the computer beside him and stands up. "I'll make sure the duffel is packed," he says, quietly.

None of them say that this might not be a play act. Not out loud, anyway.

A thought—the very idea—sticks in Dean's mouth, makes it thick and dark and unpleasantly bitter, but he says it anyway. "Cas, maybe... shit." He blows out a harsh breath. "You know better than anyone 'bout research and signs and sigils and shit. Maybe... maybe, while Bobby's riding the police databases, you should, uh.” He clears his throat. “You should stay here, try to get a handle on this Lilith key bullshit."

He can't believe he's saying it.

From the look on Cas's face, neither can Cas.

They stare at each other and Dean can feel the thousand things that Cas wants him to know. Dean is pretty sure that Cas can read all the same off him.

Cas’s eyes go darker. A muscle ticks at the corner of his jaw. He doesn’t look away. Dean thinks this might be the first time he’s ever seen Cas really angry.

Bobby steps between them and slams something into Cas's arms. "Amazing things, these laptops. Did you know they're meant to be portable?" He turns to give Dean a look that screams 'stop being a self-sacrificing asshole when you don't need to be'. Then, with more tact than Bobby has ever once felt the need to show before, he sidles out of the main room before the explosion happens.

Cas, for the most part, just keeps one eyebrow raised. "I'll get the duffle," he says again, far more firmly than the first time.

Dean opens his mouth to argue, but really, Bobby makes good points. Dean’s so used to running off to help Sam, before and after anything and everything. He forgets that it's not just him and Sam against the world: that he doesn't need to do things alone.

"But all of Bobby's books are here," he manages—a last weak effort.

Dean might not know a word of Enochian, but the noise Cas spits out over his shoulder as he climbs the stairs with little stomps makes Dean pretty sure he just got cussed out in it.

Bobby comes back with an armful of bottles and clinking jars, and starts throwing stuff hastily together into little Ziplock bags. "What?" he says, when Dean stares. "They work just as well as the stupid fancy cloth things." He passes Dean a shotgun.

Dean automatically takes the gun and checks it over. Ziplock versus fancy cloth wasn't actually what Dean was worried about, but okay, that's weird too. "What are they?"

Bobby grunts. "Sorta-uh. Low grade concealment-type charm things. If you're gonna be traveling with the likes of him," he gestures with his chin up towards the stairway, "maybe it'll help keep the demons off your asses a little longer."

Dean takes the bags and sort of stares because he's not used to people just taking this sort of decision away from him like that. Dean knows, if he really put his foot down, got loud and mad about it, he'd get his way, but he doesn't really want the fallout from that sort of moment. He looks upstairs when an especially loud thump makes itself known.

Yeah, he really doesn't want to see what happens if he forces the issue. He doesn't actually want to: doesn't even think Cas staying behind is a better idea, just a different one with different risks.

Cas comes back down with the duffle looking fully packed and a slim wooden box in his hands. Right, the scythe. Yeah, they should probably take that with them. Damn, that thing is an awkward shape, or Dean would carry it on him.

They don't speak while Dean finishes armoring back up. Knife in his boot, angel blade at his back, Colt M1911, lockpick set, even a garrote made of iron. Cas slings the bag into Baby’s trunk like he's been doing it his whole life, slides into the passenger seat and waits.

Dean slides in and starts the car but doesn't pull out. Eventually, he has to say it. "Cas?"

Cas looks at him and then glances away. Dean’s pretty sure it’s the first time he’s done that rather than searing holes in Dean’s soul with his eyes. "There are many difficult decisions coming our way, Dean. Please don't add to them needlessly."

Dean doesn't have much to say to that. But he's not sorry for saying what he did, either. He knows he was right, too. And right now, they don't know what the hell is more right.

Or more wrong.

He pulls out of Bobby's and starts them toward the highway. Dean knows most of the highway roads around here like he knows the lines on his palms, but he pushes a map towards Cas anyway for something to do. One day, they're gonna be able to get Internet in the car, but until then, Cas is shotgun.

Dean would figure he'd be used to it, by now—driving with someone mad at him sitting at the bench seat beside him. It still sucks.

But rather than opening the map—or staring painfully at the side of Dean's face—Cas rummages under the seat and pulls out the box of cassettes. "What would you like to listen to?" he asks, pleasantly.

Dean is not prepared for that: it feels like the emotional equivalent of expecting a step and not finding it at the height it should be. "Uh… something with a beat?" He reaches in and grabs something Zeppelin-like and shoves it into the tape deck. Cas gives a pleased rumble when Ramble On starts.

It doesn't take long to get to Bobby's abandoned car. Dean gets into it without an issue and searches the whole damn thing. All he finds is a scrap of paper with a phone number on it, but he thinks it's Sam's handwriting.

When Dean plugs it into the laptop in the closest library they can find with internet access, it takes him nearly an hour to figure out it's a burner number on a just-purchased phone. Dean hopes to God that's Sam's doing.

When Dean calls the phone company, he doesn't even have to try that hard to get into the account and turn on the GPS. Sam's name and password aren't hard to guess at all.

Dean breathes his first sigh of relief in what feels like hours when the tracker pops up on the map. It's currently stationary, at a hotel a couple hours east of them. He turns Baby towards faster roads.

He and Cas end up getting hung up at a nasty pile-up on the highway, though, that takes hours to clear—Dean tapping his fingers with increasing irritation on the edge of the window, and swinging his head out to take a look at whether the red lights of taillights stretching out before them have moved any. They take the first exit off it that they can, and this time, Cas does dig out the maps.

But the signal's moved on by the time they get to the hotel—goddammit—and Dean's eyes are starting to blur with exhaustion as the hour swings past midnight.

"Dean," Cas says, gently, and he stops the radio that Dean turned up to help keep himself awake. Dean looks over at him, sharply. "Dean, we should stop for the night."

With every fiber of his being, Dean does not want to hit the turn signal that would pull them out of the hotel lot and down the road to a cheaper motel for the night. He doesn't want to stop; hell, he's considering letting Cas behind the wheel to keep going. But he also knows that if they catch up too quick it's the end of this game.

It’s not a fucking game to him.

But he does it: swoops onto the road a little too fast, and pulls into the motel. 

He's so damn distracted that he doesn't even remember that him and Cas sharing a room might be a little different than Sam and him sharing a room. It’s all automatic, at this point: check-in is on autopilot.

When Dean gets the door open and slings his bag down on the nearest table, he's not really paying attention to much of anything other than putting one foot in front of the other. But when he looks up, he sees Cas stall at the door: his back stiffens into that angel posture that he sometimes gets when he's not sure how to react.

Dean blinks and realizes that he must’ve asked for a double: two queens. 

It wasn't meant as a commentary on anything but fuck.

Dean didn't mean it that way, as a rejection. He didn't want to make this into more of a fight than it already is. Fuck, he didn't even think about it at all. 

But he doesn't have the energy to have it out, either—not when fucking traffic made them miss Sam, and he has no idea if resting his eyes for even these four hours will put them so far behind that Sam...

"Just rest, Dean," Cas says, quietly, sitting down on the edge of one of the beds and already reaching for a light switch on one of the little bedside lamps that are the only things illuminating the ugly floral wallpaper. He bends over to rummage into the duffel for a knife. "I'll ward the room and keep watch."

On the back of his tongue, Dean wants to say "You don't have to." "Stay over here." "Plenty of room for two," with a little flirty tip of his head.

"Wake me up at seven," Dean says, instead, his heart heavy and shaky, and climbs into the other bed with all his clothes on.

He wakes up to the smell of coffee seconds before his phone alarm blares near his ear. Cas is at the countertop, and the little coffee machine is perking out a full cup of what's probably just as strong as brown water, but the smell will definitely help wake him up.

Their fingers don't touch as Cas hands him the cup. Dean's chest hurts a little at that, but he doesn't say anything. He twists the ring on his finger and hopes that it means what he wants it to mean in the long run. Cas is still wearing his, so that's something at least.

Dean sips his shitty coffee and checks up on Sam's progress. He's moved on again, but compared to the route he took before, it looks like a straighter line between him and them. Dean wonders about the detour, but he's not actually awake enough to think of all the worst possible reasons for it.

Bobby calls them to let them know that Escalade was found in Cold Spring, but by then, Dean's on the trail. It's hours later of silence in the car. Cas put the box of cassettes between them like a bolster, and Dean's been feeding them into the tape deck, one by one, like coins into a slot machine.

They're crossing into Minneapolis when Cas makes a quiet noise, looking up from the pile of newspapers he picked up at the last gas station on his lap.

"Demon omens," he says, quietly. "Should we check them out?"

"Where?" Dean asks, pitifully grateful to hear Cas's voice. So far Cas hasn't done anything but be patient, if reserved. He's an excellent copilot, insofar as he defers to most of Dean's choices and only gets demanding when it's important, like Dean being so tired he might drive off the road. But the silence in between hasn’t been _comfortable_ in days. Just… silence.

"Close to Indianapolis." Cas says, already tracing the major interstates back to them.

"And Sam?" Dean asks, checking what their next exit is.

"Des Moines," Cas says after a few seconds waiting for the phone app to load. "But heading in that general direction."

Dean taps his fingers on the steering wheel and the tension that thrums through his body is nearly suffocating. He needs to do something. He needs to _fight_ something. "Yeah okay, we'll head in that direction and see what Sam does."

It's demons, all right.

It's a lot of demons. They're outnumbered.

Well, fuck that.

Cas's blade is dripping with blood and the sleeves of his trench coat are wet to the wrists with it. Dean's favoring his left leg. But they're five demons down and one to go, and that one is wrapped up snug with Dean's angel blade to his neck.

Turns out his ring is pretty nifty at knocking demons for a loop, too.

"So where's Lilith?" Dean asks, conversationally.

The demon laughs and opens its mouth. There's a streak of black smoke already starting to appear as it tries to smoke out—when Cas steps in and sandwiches it between their bodies, clamping a hand over its maw.

Cas's hand blazes around the edges, and the host's eyes bulge—but even as Dean prepares to watch it go up to angel flame in front of him, it... doesn't.

But it doesn't smoke out, either.

"You're not going anywhere," Cas purrs. He's trying for 'sweet,' Dean thinks, but it's mostly terrifying. And a little hot. "Talk."

The demon doesn't want to talk, partially because it really doesn't know much. After more pain that Dean's comfortable admitting he had very little problem inflicting, they get one piece of information. 

Babies. Lilith likes to eat fucking _babies_. For _fun_ , ‘cause demons don’t even actually have to eat.

"Oh gross." Dean makes a face. "Do you guys have to try quite so hard to be bad?" 

Cas shoves his blade through the host's neck before it tries to answer. When Dean frowns at him, Cas shrugs. "The vessel had been shot months ago, there was no saving him."

Dean drops his head. Yeah, at least they didn't have to worry about sending that thing back to hell to tattle on them. They take care of the bodies and then limp back to their motel room. Home sweet home for the night. Cas leans heavily on the doorframe as he walks in, like he needs one extra moment before taking his next step. 

Dean's leg throbs and reminds him to get sitting as soon as possible. He looks at the sofa and, nope. Edge of the bed it is. It squeaks under him, but no springs poke him in the ass, so there’s a win right there. 

But Cas is in front of him almost immediately, the first aid kid in his hands. He's already removed his jackets and rolled his sleeves up, and Dean can't help but stare at his forearms. 

It's the most he's seen of Cas in a few days. There's also the slash of a knife wound on the right one. It doesn’t look like it’s healing.

Dean reaches out before he can help himself, and touches the skin right to the side of it. "They got you," he says, hoarsely. "Shit."

It's not much, on the scale of things they get injured by. Barely anything. But maybe he's gotten so used to the idea of Cas being someone who doesn't bleed, who doesn't bruise. Who Dean doesn't have to worry about, because he's a fucking angel and he'll throw down.

Which he does. He still does, fuck, Dean loves watching him fight. But... there's a wound the length of Dean's hand on his forearm. It's not bleeding, but the center is scabbed. The edges are still gapped in a way that makes Dean's head swim a little.

Cas shouldn't have wounds like that. Cas should be _healing_ shit like that.

He thinks, abruptly, about what Cas said about how his grace is fading, how him touching Dean helps... recharge him. When’s the last time Dean even put a hand on his shoulder or his arm? How low have Cas’s batteries gotten? Why didn't he fucking _say_ anything?

Cas shakes his head and doesn't look into his eyes. "I'm alright," he says. "Let me wrap your knee."

Dean grabs his hands before they move away from Dean's denim-clad knee and into the first aid kit. He thinks Cas hasn't thought too far ahead, because wrapping Dean’s knee would require the removal of pants, and that's just a level of awkward they seem to be avoiding these days. Cas freezes when Dean touches him, still looking away.

"Cas I…" The words stick in Dean's throat. He's not even sure he knows what he wants to say, there's so much. _'I need you.' 'I don't know how to have this.' 'I don't know who I need more, you or Sam, and that scares me.'_ When he can't get anything else out, Dean reaches out with his other hand and touches Cas's face, fingers skimming his cheekbone and jaw, remembering what the feel of Cas's stubble does to the tips of fingers.

Cas finally looks at him, and his eyes are so vulnerable that it literally aches in Dean's chest. 

"Please?" Dean croaks.

Cas leans into the touch on his face, and suddenly it's like Dean can breathe again.

"Alright," Cas answers, quietly.

Dean isn't wholly sure what he's agreeing to until Cas sits back on his heels and offers the first aid kit to Dean, then presents his arm to him. It's a weird position for them to be doing this in—Cas kneeling on the floor at Dean's feet. But Dean’s afraid to move too much, afraid that might put them back into the weird demilitarized zone they've been traveling in the past few days—where there's no active hostilities but no warmth to it, either.

Carefully, Dean wipes it down with antiseptic, then spreads ointment on the edges and layers it down with gauze and their good medical tape. He thinks it might be closing even as he puts down the final strip. But he takes his time doing it, anyway, because if Cas needs Dean to touch him to refill his grace, then Dean's just going to keep doing it. He skims his fingertips down that lean forearm.

"Thank you," Cas says, putting his fingertips on the edge of the bandage, testing the stick of the silk tape. His palm almost brushes Dean's fingers.

Dean moves the inches and covers Cas's hand with his own.

"M'glad you're here," he mumbles. It's not what he means to say, but it's better than Dean's first thought—which was "I'm glad I don't have to do this alone." It's true, but it's not _the_ truth.

Cas's hand turns and fingers tightens on his; Dean wants to just collapse from relief. He actually does bend down and press his forehead to their joined fingers. Cas strokes his hair briefly while Dean takes a few shaking breaths.

When he does look up Cas is there, and he's softer than before. That angelic stiffness is definitely gone and Dean doesn't miss it at all. Together, they help Dean stand, and it takes both of them to get Dean's pants unbuttoned and off. Dean has missed this too: Cas's closeness, his easy familiarity with Dean's body. Not at all clumsy or stiff, just right for the belt and button and zipper and sliding his hands over Dean's hips to edge the waistband down until gravity can take over, Dean balancing his weight on one hand on Cas’s shoulder to keep it off his bad leg

He sits back down again and watches Cas remove his boots and socks, stuffing the socks into the empty shoes the same way Dean did that night before everything went to hell. Then Cas touches his bare leg. It's not even sexual, but it still takes Dean's breath away: it's gentle and warm, and Cas's fingers run along the slightly swollen lines of his knee so carefully.

Cas looks up at him, his eyelashes dark and shadowed. "I could heal this," he offers, softly. "I think I have enough."

Goddammit, Cas. "You didn't even auto-heal yourself," Dean grumps at him, pulling his knee back just enough to protest, not enough to pull away from the contact of Cas's hand. "Sure as hell you shouldn't be healing me."

Cas's eyes narrow a little. "It's not the same thing." His thumb strokes little lines up and down Dean's kneecap.

Dean's eyes narrow back. "It's freakin' exactly the same thing, and the fact that you don't think so worries me." He reaches into the bag and pulls out a roll of ace wrap, handing it to Cas. "I'll pop some aspirin, wrap it up, get a night, and it'll be fine in the morning."

Cas says, a little grumpily, "Take ibuprofen, not aspirin. Aspirin will increase your bleeding risk and will worsen the bruising and swelling." But he bends over and puts a little kiss on Dean's kneecap.

It makes Dean smile, and it feels like the first time he's smiled in days.

Cas wraps his knee with so much care Dean almost rolls his eyes. It's barely a ding compared to the injuries he's gotten in the past. But Cas's determined look and his still shoulders about the whole thing keep him from commenting on it.

That night, Cas slips his shoes off and even undoes his tie. Then he pulls the blankets up over Dean to tuck him in, and slips onto the bed behind him. He doesn't slide under the covers with Dean, but that's probably more to do with the fact that Cas takes his nighttime guard duties very seriously.

It doesn't matter. Dean can feel himself relax the moment Cas's body heat makes its way through the blankets and to Dean's skin. Cas's knees slot in right behind his, even muffled under the covers, and his arm tucks right over Dean's waist like it was already always there.

Cas kisses the back of Dean’s neck and rubs his hip, just like that first night. Dean’s so busy savoring the feeling of not having lost everything that he finds himself asleep before he's ready.

The next motel, Dean gets a single room with a king-sized bed.

That night, when he unwraps Cas's arm before they get into bed, the slash bisecting it is gone like it never was.

"Heh," Dean says, and kisses the inside of Cas's wrist.

"Don't be smug," Cas grumbles, taking his hand back. But not without running the back of one finger over Dean's cheek. "It doesn't suit you."

"'Course it does," Dean answers, shucking comfortably down to his boxers and t-shirt.

"'Because you're adorable?" Cas says, dryly, sitting down behind the laptop for one last check. He's made some kind of a spreadsheet of demon signs, and has been passing it back and forth with Bobby. Dean doesn't have to look at it to know they're getting closer and closer, though. He can feel it in his shoulders, in his bones. In the fact that Sam hasn't tried to leave them any messages in the past few days, even when they've caught up to places he's been.

Sam ditched his phone today, but Dean's got his trail, now.

"Always stealin' my lines," Dean says, warmly, and starts to get himself into bed.

Cas joins him and Dean briefly feels content beyond the telling of it. The thought of Sam breaks through those warm, soft feelings quickly, but not as quickly as it might've a year ago, and that's something Dean is still trying to deal with.

They haven't talked about it, really, but with some distance Dean can see that Cas probably had a good idea of everything going on in his head. He always does. 

It probably wasn't just that he thought Dean was ditching him… even though Dean really _was_ , and if Cas had actually listened, and stayed with Bobby? Dean would have just kissed him goodbye at the door, and happily. But it was everything else that hurt Cas’s feelings: the idea that it would be so easy for Dean to leave him behind, or that he might not regret it nearly instantly. Cas should know better… well, so should Dean, but Cas can feel those insecurities sometimes as clearly as his own. It’s possible it was even as simple as Dean not talking about it with Cas in advance—the way Cas has been so careful to do with everything.

Okay, with one bone-carved, tramp stamp exception.

Cas has stayed just a little bit reserved, but that's kind of what Dean needs right now. In Dean's mind, there's two hills to climb. The first is Lilith, and everything that comes with that—Ruby, Sam, the demon blood, the possible end of the world, all the fun stuff. 

The second, though, is Cas—or really, how to be with Cas without freaking out, because Dean doesn't get happy endings or normal life things, and he doesn’t have the first fucking idea how to have them. Maybe that's something he'll eventually be ready to start poking at, but not before Sam.

He can't do both at once, and every time he tries, something dumb happens. Like Sam getting all Hulk Angry about Dean and Cas.

But Dean still needs to do one thing. He rolls before Cas can take his usual position as the prettiest gargoyle protector Dean's bed has ever seen.

Cas blinks back at him with the kind of surprise a person gets when someone disrupts their routine. It's adorable. Dean reaches out and pulls him close. Cas's arms surround him, wiggling in without hesitation, and Dean presses his nose to Cas's neck.

"Maybe..." he says, and then trails off. He doesn't know where to go from there.

Cas's hand pets gently up Dean’s shoulder and ends cupping the back of his neck, holding Dean to him. "Yes," he agrees.

Dean opens his mouth to protest that Cas doesn't even know what he was gonna say. Hell, Dean doesn't even know what he was gonna say.

But maybe Cas does. Maybe it doesn't matter at all. Maybe that 'yes' is all that matters, because for Cas, that's just... it, that's just them.

That kind of loyalty is staggering, and it hurts, and Dean doesn't know what he'd do without it now. He reaches up and blindly finds Cas's fingers, tangling them through and through. Their rings clink. "Don't have to keep watch every night," he murmurs.

"I think that obviates the point of keeping watch," Cas answers, but Dean feels those lips press against Dean's forehead.

Dean sighs into it and then lifts his head. They kiss softly, a slow press of lips, and Dean can feel Cas’s body curve into him like it's exactly what he needs. When they part, Cas presses one last peck on Dean's lips before pulling away.

"Let me do this for you," Cas says—meaning the guard duty, not the making out. Hell, that barely even counts as making out.

Dean nods, the release of a tension he hadn't even known he'd been carrying just wiping him out. "Yeah, okay." He rolls over and fits his body into the shelter of Cas's. He only has a brief moment of thinking about how hard that was, to say ‘okay,’ before he passes out.

It takes three more tense days of following omens and trying to rescue babies (and sometimes, goddammit, failing) before Sam reaches out again. This time, it's through an anonymous email to Bobby disguised as some very remarkable spam. (No one’s ever said Sam wasn’t smart.) He forwards it along to Cas and Dean.

"Maryland," Cas says, smoothly, once he's translated the coordinates from the Nigerian Prince’s plea for help. Then he pauses and gets a faraway look on his face. "Wait." He pulls the laptop up and types quickly. "There's a church… no, a convent. I remember reading about it in one of my classes. It was a blip, really. But someone had put together a lecture about Theology and the Psychopath, and the circumstances were… memorably gory. I wasn't really interested, but I never put it together before now."

He turns the laptop to face Dean. On it is an article about a massacre in a convent in Ilchester, Maryland. Dean reads. "Reverse crucification huh?" That's how they found one of the nuns.

Cas nods. "This seems like an ideal place for the barriers to be thin, don't you think?"

They haven't known how Sam's doing, in the week or so they've been chasing after him—if he's drinking blood. If Ruby has her claws in him. But the relief of this—Sam reaching out, Sam _giving_ them something, a location—rushes through Dean like the feel of a shower after a long, dirty hunt. He can't believe that Sam would mislead them, not about something like this. Not intentionally: he’ll never believe Sam’s so far gone.

That's Dean’s brother, reaching out. That's Sam, not under Ruby's clutches. That's the knowledge that Sam said he ran away for, but until this moment, Dean couldn't be completely sure that it wasn't just the lure of, well.

It's the needle they were looking for in the haystack of all those books. Lock and key. They have a possible place, now.

It's terrifying and it's a light at the end of the tunnel, because it looks like they just might _win_.

"Attaboy, Sammy," he murmurs, his throat thick.

There's no time or date: maybe Sam doesn't know, or maybe he does but can't get away to communicate it yet. Either way, they're making due haste to Maryland and finding a place to camp out near that convent. 

They’re unpacking the car in the parking lot outside an impressively shitty motel, right across the border from Pennsylvania. Illchester, for all its small-town charm on the internet, is far too close to both Washington and Baltimore for Dean's liking. It makes traffic less predictable (in the way that only a big city's traffic can be, despite its regular rush hour and construction) and finding cheap motels without cameras at nearby locations more difficult.

Washington D.C., especially, bothers Dean. The very concept of it is dangerous to who they are. God knows how many federal agents might remember his face from his Most Wanted years. Dean's just thinking about finding the closest motel to ground zero for their next stop when Anna appears.

Cas is already in a defensive posture by the time Dean reacts. He's not used to hearing the wing beats when he doesn't know they're coming and it startles him briefly.

"Castiel," Anna says, but she doesn't move. Her suit’s not torn anymore. Her smile is soft and bland.

"Sister," Castiel answers. He doesn't sound like he means it. But he doesn't sound sad, either, and his angel blade is out. "You're alive."

He does sound sad about that. Knowing what they know, Dean can only imagine why.

"I'm glad to see you are well, Castiel," she says, and it sounds like her, but... not, in a way that makes the skin at the back of Dean's neck crawl. He's not sure if it's his and Cas's connection, or the fact that he's spent all this time with an angel whose angel blade does _not_ seem to be up his ass most of the time. But Anna doesn't seem... right. Her eyes are bright and shining, and a little fanatical. "I'm so glad I found you."

Oh, like that doesn't sound ominous at all.

She's not attacking, but Dean has his own angel blade out, now. She glances at him and arches an eyebrow. "Your warding was very effective," she notes, peacefully, "but your car was spotted driving through northern Virginia by some of our trusted agents."

See, Dean knew there was a reason he fucking hated Washington.

Anna keeps smiling at Cas, but it’s small, and it doesn't make it through her expression. She's a beautiful, cold statue. Dean can't imagine how, in another time or another universe, he ever slept with her without getting frostbite. Yeesh. "It's time to come home, Castiel,” she informs him, gently. “You can, you know. All will be forgiven."

The silent 'as I was forgiven' makes Dean's heart want to jitter to a stop. He can't imagine Cas like this: frozen in place, frozen in time, stiff and uncaring.

"When the world ends," Cas answers, flatly. "When Michael and Lucifer are at holy war. No, thank you."

"Not war, Castiel. What comes after. Paradise," Anna murmurs, and the bliss on her face is almost a caricature. "Aren't you tired of all of this? Existence puttering along without guidance, slowly decaying into madness?"

Cas shakes his head and it's obvious he pities her just from the angle of his chin. "Just because you do not understand something, doesn't make it not worth understanding. And no, I'm not tired of existence.” His eyes flick to Dean’s. “I would very much like to enjoy at least the next forty to sixty years of it."

Dean blinks. Wow, okay then. They’ve probably had the world’s weirdest ways of being introduced to the family, but this one takes the cake.

Anna glances at Dean. "Oh, Castiel, you really have fallen," she sighs. And then she's gone, too fast for his eyes to see. Before Dean can even register _motion_ , there's a hand on his shoulder from behind: it's small and delicate, and he knows that it's Anna's. "I'm sorry, Dean, but you can't interfere."

And then… 

Nothing happens. Not a damned thing.

Well, no: Cas throws his head back and barks out a laugh. "I warded him extremely well, Anna," he says, between chuckles. Dean spins around and sees Anna stumbling back, looking entirely flummoxed, staring at her own hand like she’s not sure it’s attached to her. "He's anchored to _me_." Cas moves in a rush, and suddenly the shining arc of his blade is at her neck.

Anna doesn't flinch. She doesn't move. The edge of the knife nicks her neck, and a drop of blood rolls down it, glittering until it vanishes into the collar of her white, white blouse.

"Oh, Castiel," she whispers, but her eyes are on Dean. It's like she hasn't noticed the blade that's sitting at her throat, and fuck, that is creepy. She's looking up and down Dean’s body like she's seeing him for the first time. "What have you _done?_ "

Well, yeah, Dean knows that Cas marked him all up and down his ass and back with angel sigils. But she's looking at him with a kind of horror that goes deeper than that. Much, much deeper.

"Made it impossible for Heaven to treat him as a tool ever again, Anna," Cas says, and there seems to be more to what he's saying than what's in his words. His eyes are dark and hooded, now. "Dean is his own, now, and you will not take him against his will. You will never use him again."

She turns and looks at Cas, over her shoulder. The knife still at her throat draws a stripe down her skin when she moves. More blood starts trickling free of it. There's a blue-white glow at the edges of it, but it’s like she’s not feeling it, either. "Michael will kill you for this," she says, sadly. "You, and Dean, and... do you have any idea what you've done? What will happen when Lucifer rises? You’ve damned us all. There's no coming back from this, Castiel."

Cas shakes his head, and smiles, small, sad. "I think that's what you, and Heaven, never understood, my friend. There never was."

Dean knows what Cas is going to do before he does it. "Cas, don't—" he yelps, throwing out a hand.

But it's done. Anna blazes white, and then she's gone—slumped at Cas's feet with pits for her eyes.

When Dean's finishes blinking the green afterimages from his eyes, he finds Cas with his knees bent, peering down into what remains of Anna. He looks heartbroken. As much as Cas talks about how wrong Heaven is, Dean can't help but remember they're still his family in a weird way. Cas has had to stab far too many members of his family for any one person.

Most of the angels Dean's met have been shallow—not superficial, but more like without a lot of feelings in any one direction. Just… orders. Resolve, maybe. If Dean had to guess, they probably only really experience three or four emotions their whole lives. 

Cas, on the other hand, feels things so deeply. Dean doesn't know if it's his time as a human, or if there's something else at play, but he wishes more angels understood the way Cas does.

They get her body out of sight quickly, and boy, does Dean not enjoy using the tarp in the trunk for this kind of thing. The motel lot backs up into a bunch of trees, and Cas incinerates her with some angel mojo. It's bright and hot, but quick. He doesn't look too exhausted after it, but Dean's gonna make sure his battery is charged up tonight anyway.

He doesn’t say anything about the tears running in a slow, continuous drip down Cas’s face.

When they do finally get into the room, Cas sort of stops, just staggering to the bed and sitting, instead of his usual routine of starting to ward everything in sight. Dean sits next to him and lets Cas lean into his shoulder and take shaky breaths.

"So," Dean says once Cas feels more sturdy. "You gonna let me in on whatever it was you and Anna were talking about?"

"I... I didn't know for sure," Cas says, softly, looking down into his hands. He's not silently crying, anymore, but he’s still shaking. His pupils are pinpoint. For the first time in a long time, Dean thinks he looks... maybe a little scared. "Not until..." he trails off. "Dean, please start the warding. Please."

It's the way he says 'please' that sort of kicks Dean's ass in gear, and he stands up and retrieves his knife, opening up one of the cuts on his forearm just enough for blood for the wards. He wards the doors and windows—salts them for good measure. Even the ones in the bathroom, which is actually kind of nice for a place like this.

When he comes out, Cas is still slumped on the bed. He must have put his face into his hands, because there's a smeared line of blood across his cheeks. Dean hasn't seen him looking this hopeless in... ever, and it's starting to sort of scare him.

They're so close. This is the end of the line. What the fuck could Anna have possibly said to scare him?

But that's not for right this second. Dean reaches out and crouches by his feet, putting a hand on his knee. Cas's eyes meet his. "Hey. How d'you feel about a hot shower?"

Cas blinks down and at him, but he nods with a little more energy; Dean takes that as a win. He disappears briefly into the bathroom to start the water and make sure there are supplies nearby. With all the goop and gross shit he and Sam have had to wash off themselves, they've gotten into the habit of carrying small travel bottles of Dr. Bronners liquid soap (it can also do laundry in the sink in a pinch) as well as a supply of Goo Gone. Hotels like white shit so they can just bleach the crap out of it when cleaning, but it does sometimes make Dean feel a little bad about how often they outright destroy the washcloths and towels.

Once everything is set, he takes Cas's hand and gently pulls him upright. Cas follows Dean's directions with a soft, distant look in his eyes and it's starting to worry him. He gets Cas's outer layers off, then his belt, his tie, his shoes and socks. Then he does the same for himself.

By the time he gets them into the shower Cas is shivering a little and Dean spends long minutes just rubbing his arms under the hot water. Cas blinks the water out of his eyes; it clumps his lashes together and plasters his hair against his head. Dean realizes he's never seen Cas wet before, and he immediately likes the look of his skin like this:warm and damp with a pink flush from the shower.

He's not looking to start anything, though. He takes Cas's bloody hands and pours liquid soap into them, sudsing them over and over until they're clean. Until there's no more blood staining the floor. Cas watches it go, and while Dean can't always tell what's bothering someone, he knows that look.

He turns Cas around, both of them shuffling and bumping in the tiny shower, and pours out the contents of the tiny little bottle of motel shampoo into his hand before setting his fingers in Cas's hair. It's weird: he hasn't washed anyone like this since Sammy was a kid, and God knows he's never had anyone do it to him since he was, well, old enough to wash himself. But he vaguely remembers it feeling nice.

Washing someone else didn't feel quite this good before, though—running his hands over smooth, tight skin, slippery with soap. It's something that Dean wouldn't mind trying again under, well. Less weird circumstances.

Cas gets up enough steam to wash the rest of himself, and it makes Dean more and more sure it's not just that burst of grace that he used that's left him this shaky. Before they get out of the shower, both of them pink and flushed and clean, Dean cups his face. Leans in and kisses him, under the spray. Some of it gets into Dean’s eyes, and he blinks it away.

"Hey," he says. "Whatever it is? We'll deal with it. Capisce?"

Cas blinks, but he nods. "I capisce."

Dean gets them both dried off and dressed into boxers and t-shirts, rolls them into the bed. Cas remains quiet and pliant and Dean pulls him to his chest, tucking his head under Dean's chin. Cas clings, swinging a leg up and over, pushing his other knee between Dean's. His arm is tight around Dean's ribs.

Dean gives it a few minutes, stroking idly down Cas's back, feeling him breathe, in and out, slowly but surely.

When Cas starts talking, finally, it’s into the notch between Dean’s collarbones. "Heaven has always been far too interested in you and Sam," he begins, very quietly. "I suspect your parents were targeted by a cupid to ensure your births." Cas's fingers start drawing nonsense patterns on Dean’s chest. "You have to understand Dean, I remade you, from atoms, from carbon and oxygen and iron. Your body, or what was left of it, was only good for the blueprints, but I only needed a small amount of material from it to add to what I was building—essentially, so that your soul would see this body as your own. Human bodies refresh completely every seven years or so; this isn't much different than that, only I did it all at once." He looks up, then, chin perching on Dean's sternum. "You learn things about a person, putting them together piece by piece like that."

Dean swallows. "What did you learn?"

"The things that one learns about bodies, I suppose," Cas starts. "That your bow legs are congenital, not an effect of your childhood. That your eyes refract the light differently depending on your mood. That your right kidney is rotated just the slightest bit to the left. That your soul..." a hand comes up, and traces down the curve of Dean's side. "That your soul will never stop fighting."

Dean has to take two or three deep breaths before he can talk after that. "That last bit there doesn't sound like my body, Cas," he says, quietly, but he pets at the dark, damp hair resting just under his chin. He knows the pattern of someone fighting to get something out.

Cas smiles, just a little, but there's no real joy in it. "I learned that your body is... strong, Dean. Resilient. You don't break easily; you heal even faster. Your reflexes are very good, and the firing of your synapses is fast even by the standards of synapses."

Those all sound like good things, but something about the way Cas is saying that makes Dean a little wary. He looks down. "But?"

Cas's eyes meet his. "No... buts. Your body is beautiful, Dean, inside and out. From your bones to your freckles." He shakes his head, slowly, not looking away. "Almost as if you were... crafted to be. Long before I ever reached out to touch you."

"Are you talking about fate?" Dean's skeptical, always has been. He's seen too many coincidences go wrong at precisely the wrong moment for him to really feel much about fate. Considering that Death found them interesting precisely because they’re walking, talking prophecy paradoxes, that just supports Dean’s feelings about someone trying to plan out his existence for him.

"Human life is… short," Cas begins, slowly. "Especially compared to an angel's. What may look like fate, or even random chance, because someone can only see a small part of a grander scheme... seems more like careful deliberation the more I look at it."

Cas reaches out to take Dean's hand, threading their fingers together and then pulling it close. He kisses the back of Dean’s knuckles, gently. "When I warded you, I had several theories as to Heaven's need for you. After all, if all they needed was for you to break the first seal, their interest would not have been so… persistent, after that. Uriel gave you tests, attempting to get you to follow orders. They liked dropping you into the middle of moral quandaries that had no good answer. They were preparing you for something—a difficult decision, perhaps. That much I could tell."

"It occurred to me, then: the parallels. Cain and Abel. My human life accidentally, I think, prepared me for this. Because Heaven likes its symbolism, Dean. Two brothers—the key and the lock—two halves. Two different sides. Then I realized: Lucifer will need a vessel when released, and, being an archangel, it can’t be just any vessel. It would have to be a strong one, or…" Cas trails off and he looks away. "One strong enough to be enhanced by demon blood."

A cold, hard shard of fear lodges in Dean's chest. "Sam." No. No, that ain’t happening.

Cas looks away from Dean, then. "Likely. But... as I said, Heaven likes its parallels. Two brothers, on opposite sides." Cas turns back to him, this time looking shaky and desperate again. "You have to understand, Dean, when I first came back this was all vague supposition. Until recently, I had no real proof, and there were too many other things to worry about first. I would have told you if I’d known for sure. I would have."

Dean nods. "I believe you." He's not sure what to feel. He's mad, yes, but he gets why Cas didn't tell him. He strokes Cas's neck slowly, waiting for that final blow. Cas is still too tense for that to just be it.

Cas relaxes a bit. "When I warded you, I did things… a little differently than standard warding. My Name is on your marrow, Dean, and so it will remain unless I efface it from you. No angel can fly with you against your will… and…” He breathes in. Breathes out. “No one can ever take you as a vessel for as long as it is there. Not even with your permission."

Something Crowley said suddenly makes sense to Dean. Something about an angelic tramp stamp invalidating the entire contract.

Dean blinks, then looks down at Cas's face. At his shaky expression. "Wait. What? A vessel? _Me?_ " And then he remembers just what Anna said. His jaw drops. "You think _Michael_ wants to wear me to the prom?!"

The idea would be funny, Dean thinks, if it weren't so completely goddamned horrifying. He's fucking Dean Winchester. He didn't even graduate high school, so the idea that the boss archangel would want—

But that's the whole point, isn't it? That's the worst thing about it. They _don't_ want Dean. They just want his body. They want to wear him to the prom like a fucking condom. Jesus fucking Christ. Dean feels his fingers grip at the slender muscles of Cas’s back.

Cas breathes in, slowly, and out. "It won’t matter what he wants, now," he says. He doesn't sound embarrassed of it, or ashamed. "But... that's what I suspected, yes."

"And you... when you, um. Wrote on me." Dean's hand stills between Cas’s shoulder blades. "You made that impossible. Even if I said yes to him... he couldn't. Even though he's an archangel?"

Cas nods, and his eyes close like he's waiting for a blow. "I know I did it without your knowledge, and without your true consent," he says, softly. "And I should be sorry."

Dean notes the 'should,' and not the 'I am.'

Yeah, Dean gets that, too. He's done it before. Hell that's how this whole thing got started, in a way: Dean made a unilateral decision or twelve. "I understand," Dean says, eventually. He does. 

But no matter how relieved he is that Michael won't be able to trick, press or cajole him into saying ‘Yes,’ it may take him a little longer to forgive.

Dean waits to see if there's anything left—if Cas feels the need to confess more sins that, in a way, aren't really sins. Sort of. When none come out, Dean takes a deep breath and asks the question he's been afraid to ask since Anna first mentioned it. "How pissed will Michael be when he finds out?"

"Incredibly. I have potentially incurred the wrath of an archangel. They are not… used to being crossed." Cas sounds calm about it now. But Dean knows the face and voice of someone who's signed their own death warrant, thinking that it's worth it because it saves the right person. He’s worn that look, too.

"That's why you killed her," Dean answers, quietly. It isn't casual. He knows she and Cas were friends. Hell, Anna _helped_ them, and almost got her wings ripped off for it. "So they wouldn't find out. Not yet."

Cas shakes his head, his eyes closed. Then nods. Then shakes his head again. "I killed her because Anna—the Anna that I knew—was an angel of grace and thoughtfulness and caring. And she would have rather been dead than be a puppet to the death of all that is fair and good." He swallows, and presses his face into Dean's chest. "I'm very sure they sent her thinking I would hesitate before striking. From their point of view, I have been infected with feelings. The worst sort of disease. It’s what makes soldiers question their orders."

Dean's teeth clench, and he closes his arms tighter around Cas. Yeah, he's mad at him: Cas took away Dean's choices, too. Even if it was to protect him. 'Cause Dean’s not sure he would have said ‘yes’ if Cas had asked if he could.

But sometimes, just how much Cas has given up for him is just... it's so fucking _much_.

"We'll check out the convent tomorrow," he says, eventually.

Because planning for that is easier than thinking about what's here, right now.

Cas nods, and his muscles shift. Dean realizes as Cas's face lifts that he's still planning to keep guard.

Before Cas can finish pushing up into his usual protective positioning, Dean grasps his chin and pulls him close. Forgiveness was never not going to be an option for him. For them. He knows he’s going to forgive Cas eventually—even if he's gonna stay mad for a while. So he kisses him, slow and sure, deep and meaningful. That's also something else Dean can do. Cas sinks into it, a tiny noise of surprise escaping his mouth. 

Dean puts all of the things he can't say into that kiss: all of the words that keep getting caught in his throat, all of the emotions that are too big and scary to really take out and examine. He gives that all to Cas as they kiss, and when Cas eventually pulls away, he looks shaken, but in a different way. He smiles, small, but no longer scared.

It's not perfect, but Dean doesn't think it's all going to fall apart either. And that's a lot more than he had a few days ago.

In the morning, Bobby forwards them the next anonymous message: a text, this time. It's a time, a date and a place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tia:** Yes, Dean's not the only one who sometimes needs to be better at communicating... and just because they have a profound bond doesn't mean they can't have occasional disagreements. Especially when the world is ending. Poor Anna, though...


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Tia** : Here we go, friends! We started planning the events of this chapter right at the very beginning, so we hope you find it as enjoyable as we did! (And alright, I will confess that certain descriptions in this one are probably my fault...)

Dean calls Bobby just as soon as he's finished reading the message. Two days. It'll be two days. He can feel his heart beating faster, but he can also feel the tingle of electricity going through his bones.

This, he gets. The stakes are really fucking high, yeah, but in some ways? This is just another hunt. Just another monster trap. And that, Dean knows how to do.

"I got my shit packed, an' I'm on my way," Bobby says, without so much as a greeting.

"No," Dean says, even as Cas looks up, alarmed. When he meets those eyes, Cas is shaking his head, hard enough that his tie is wobbling.

"What?" Bobby demands. "You ain't the boss of me, son, just 'cause—"

Dean scratches hard at the side of his neck. "Bobby, an angel dropped in on us yesterday. Anna." He looks at Cas. They can tell Bobby the rest of it later. "You're not warded.” Couldn’t be: Cas definitely didn’t have the mojo for it when they were inside Bobby’s wards. They’re not even sure that he has the grace to go that deep anymore even with Dean giving him a recharge. “The angels might be able to track you. And they know..."

Dean stops, swallows.

They know what the Winchesters would do for family.

Bobby slams something on the other end of the line, and then sighs. "Fine. But you call me the moment you know something, need something, or, hell, _think_ of anything. You call me, you hear?"

"Yeah, Bobby." Dean smiles just a little, and glances up at Cas, whose head is bowed over the laptop again. "We hear."

"Yeah, well, you boys all better come back from this," Bobby announces. "All three of you."

Across the room Cas's head pops up in surprise: he stares at the phone in Dean’s hand in shock. Dean winks at him, and after he hangs up, he feels his lips lift in a smile, just for Cas. "Well, there's no turning back now,” he announces. “You're officially a Winchester."

"Oh," Cas says. He reaches down and touches his ring, turning it around his finger. He doesn't blush, but the smile that curves around his eyes is even better than that.

So yeah, even though they are sort of trying to avert the end of the world, their mood's pretty good as they creep into the convent.

That's when Dean gets a whole brand-new treat—'cause it turns out that Cas was some kind of a battle _strategist_ back in the old angelic days. He's got a couple of ideas for exit routes that won't involve the normal Sam'n'Dean technique of, well... running in opposite directions.

"I should be offended that you're so surprised," Cas says, wryly. "Did you think I was leading the charge to find you in Hell by... accident?"

There's no possible answer to that that's not kind of insulting. But to be honest, Dean's more used to thinking of Cas as the kind of guy who nerds out with Sam and Bobby at the table over verb declensions and spent a good ten minutes lovingly describing an illuminated manuscript than, y'know, leading an army, so, _yeah_.

But Dean's memory for places is pretty good. He's pretty sure he's got the layout down and could take it running by their third walk-around. And considering that the white marble altar still has blood in its cracked surface, he's pretty sure he knows where this shit is gonna go down.

They get out just in time: just as they pull the car out of the convent’s cracked, overgrown driveway, Cas spots the first run of demons, from further away than human eyes can see.

"They'll ward it, but likely not very well," Cas says as they head back to their most recent motel, one much closer to the convent. "For one, they need Sam and Ruby to find it without too much trouble. But for another, Lucifer is still technically an angel, even if he is twisted and malformed by now. Most angel warding would affect him as well."

"Besides," Dean agrees, "it's not like Heaven actually wants to stop this, so they probably figure there's very little danger in leaving the angel warding off entirely."

Cas nods.

There's not much else to do after that other than wait. Unfortunately, there's still more than 30 hours until show time, and that's too long for Dean to simply be able to distract himself. He already knows he's going to go a little crazy in the interim, and poor Cas is going to get the bulk of it aimed at him.

Just as he's about to apologize in advance, his phone rings. It's an unfamiliar number, but it flashes the same area code as their hotel. Dean picks it up, knowing, just knowing it's Sam.

"Yeah, what?" Dean says. Just in case.

"Dean, oh, Jesus." Sam sounds so young. He sounds younger than Dean's heard him in years.

"We got your message," Dean says, firmly. "You okay?"

It's a stupid thing to ask, and Dean knows it as soon as it's out. He knew the answer just from the tone of Sam's voice.

Sam makes a quiet little choke of "Ruby..." and then trails off. Dean waits. And then, very simply, Sam says, “She’s… she’s Lilith’s. She knew. When and where and how... all along.” His breath comes in little harsh, coarse rasps. “She’s been leading me to the convent, to this moment, all along. God. How did I… Dean, what I’ve done…”

Dean closes his eyes. Just 'cause he knew he was right doesn't mean that in some tiny way he didn't want to be wrong. There's nothing like being betrayed. And just 'cause Sam was a dumbass doesn’t mean that it's not seriously fucked-up.

Sam's been... what's the term? Groomed for this. Since even before Dean came back from the dead. Hell, the powers that be probably started leaning on Sam then _because_ Dean wouldn't be around to stop it from happening. And that's the most fucked-up thing of all.

Cas looks up from where he's inspecting the edge of his angel blade. His eyes are dark with sympathy. Maybe he gets it, too.

But Sam takes one deep breath, and lets it out. His voice is more steady when he says, "I've got ten minutes. And a plan."

Dean nods, and sits on the edge of the bed. Cas stands up and sits next to him. Dean shifts the phone to his other hand and their rings click as their fingers intertwine. "Yeah. So do we."

They hash it out in seven minutes, and that includes the time Dean needs to digest that Sam is back on the demon blood. Detox, when they get to it, _if_ they get to it, is gonna be a real bitch. It turns out though, that when he and Sam are actively working on the same side, they come up with pretty solid plans that are fairly easy to integrate.

Sam can’t even off Ruby first and just set up at the convent and wait, though, because if Lilith knows they’re onto her? They’re all screwed. Shit, Sam can’t even come to meet them. He’s gotta stay right where he is and be the good little sacrificial attack dog. Up until he isn’t.

Dean still hates Sam's part in all this, but he also thinks maybe Sam needs to do this. He's been lied to and manipulated for over a year—and that’s on top of the year he knew Dean was going to hell and there might be no way to stop it. Sam needs a win that's at his own hands. Dean would need the same.

They get ready to hang up when Sam pauses.

"Dean?" Sam says, and gone is the confidence earned through years of college and years of successes as a hunter. It's just Sammy, Dean's little brother, on the other end of the line.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

Dean takes in a shattered breath. "Me, too, Sammy. I hate all of this, but I don't blame you." He knows Sam can hear the tremor of it. Cas can, too—his hand tightens on Dean’s. "You know what? When we're all done here, we're gonna drive down to Florida. Take a fuckin' day on the beach. Couple of beers, stick our toes in the sand and throw shit at seagulls. You an' me, and—"

It's so automatic, the 'you an' me,' that the sound of the 'and' after it feels wrong for just a second. Dean doesn't know if that's him cutting himself off or if the breath just stops in his throat.

"And Cas," Sam finishes. Before Dean can say anything, he continues, "Yeah.” He breathes into the phone, in and out, slow and steady. “Yeah, let's do that."

When Dean puts down the phone, Cas is still holding his hand. "We have to," he says, very seriously, before Dean's throat has time to unwrap itself from around his heart. "You promised Bobby, and now Sam. So we all have to survive this."

It's a little kid's promise, one that Dean knows none of them might be able to keep. It's coming from a million-year-old angel.

Somehow, that makes it feel more tangible and less like the kinds of promises Dean has gotten and given his entire life: the kind full of bullshit and wishing that almost always let someone down. But when Cas says it, Dean almost believes in it.

They spend the rest of the morning getting set up. With a plan in place, Dean can go over all weapons they might need and can carry. His gun gets cleaned, his blades sharpened, and just to be safe, he checks the spray cans, holy water jugs, and salt reserves. It's all as it should be. Last, but not least, Cas pulls out the narrow wooden box that's been living at the bottom of Dean's—their—duffel.

"Get used to swinging it? Perhaps even keeping it, handle-first, in the back of your pants?" Cas suggests.

They rig up a sort of sheath that’ll keep the scythe from slipping _into_ Dean’s pants, because wouldn’t that be a hell of an accident. Dean demands Cas stay all the way on the other side of the room when he practices a swing, because fuck if he's gonna accidentally maim Cas now. 

It's a weird weapon: it should feel unbalanced, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t even have a sharp edge, when they test it against some fabric, but neither of them touch the blade. Dean thinks it'll give him a mean swing, and probably not have any resistance when it goes into a body, despite its aged and weathered appearance.

That gets them to about 2 PM, and as they put all of the gear away in the places they'll want it come tomorrow evening, Dean considers what to do with the rest of their time.

He doesn't have to take long to consider it. He's never really thought as much as maybe he should have about what happens if they don't make it—if one of them doesn't make it out. He doesn't work that way. He can't. And if he keeps thinking about what could be happening to Sammy right at this second, he’s going to go fucking insane.

"Hey, Cas?" he says.

Cas looks up from where he's tucking tiny vials of holy water and a rosary into the hem of his coat. It'll swing a little different, but any demon who accidentally breaks one of those is gonna get a tiny, nasty surprise. "Hm?"

"You know what? Fuck it. Let's go on a date," Dean announces.

Shit, that sounds just as stupid aloud as it did in his head.

But it's not as stupid as the first thing that came to mind, which was, "Fuck it, let's go get married." Because, well, this ain't Vegas, they’re two guys and they _can't,_ and... Dean doesn't know that he'd even want to, knowing what they're going into tomorrow. 

They don't have witnesses. They don't have... anything, really. Just the rings on their fingers and the look in Cas’s eyes when he turns towards Dean.

But just 'cause they're angel-married doesn't mean that Dean ever got to say the words. He didn't even realize he might want to say them, before now.

" _I think I'd have married you_ ," he told Cas, once, in a dream. He meant it then. He still does.

But if all they get is milkshakes and burgers and fries at a diner... he'll take that.

Cas stares at Dean and nods slowly. "A date?" He carefully puts down the items in his hands and then taps a finger against his lips. "Did you have something in mind?"

Dean shrugs. Other than what comes up in movies, he's only got the vaguest idea of what people do on dates that aren't finding each other in a bar and hooking up. "Dinner. Out. Maybe comb our hair first? Not a movie, though, I'm not sure I could sit in the dark in public and not be antsy as shit. Maybe we'll find something interesting to do along the way."

Cas smiles, a little shyly. "If you count the evening with the pie on the hood of the Impala, that would make this our second date?"

Huh, yeah it would. Dean returns his smile. Second date or no, he has ideas for how the evening will finish out. "So, what do you think? We'll grab an early dinner in a few hours and then wander around a bit, see what sort of date-like trouble we can get into?"

Cas gives Dean a slow look through his eyelashes that sort of makes Dean think that he wants to throw this whole date deal out the window. Maybe just spend the evening finding out how well those beds are sprung, and if Cas can actually break a headboard. "Oh?" Cas asks, in a low murmur. "You think we're going to get in trouble?"

"Yeah, you're gonna get us arrested for public indecency if you keep looking at me like that, buddy," Dean warns, but he's already feeling a little lighter.

Cas laughs, but sits down on the sofa and starts pulling the laptop towards him. Dean sits down beside him, and they start looking up stupid coupley shit to do in spring just outside Baltimore.

They don't look at a newspaper. They don't look up weird crap, or demon omens. For just one goddamned afternoon, they don't.

Dean thinks Cas would want to go to the aquarium, given the chance—he lingers over the webpage, and sighs a little at a picture of seahorses—but they're not going back into Baltimore, not with angels on their asses.

But there's a little Greek place outside of town that looks nice. Like... not a diner. Dean tries to remember the last time he sat down and ate at an actual restaurant that didn't have linoleum and a takeout menu.

They shower—separately. It feels weird to get dressed for a date with, well, the guy Dean's going on a date with. But Cas does actually comb his hair. And take off his suit jacket. And his tie (goddammit. Dean never did get him a new one). It's like Cas getting _un_ dressed is what makes it special.

So Dean puts on a button-down, too: one of his Fed shirts. He feels sort of stupid in it, but the way Cas's eyes shine at him, his hands reaching out to carefully undo the first three buttons that Dean did up all the way to the collar, makes it worth it.

Dean actually believes, feeling Cas's big hands moving carefully over his pulse, that this? Is gonna be an awesome date.

Cas smiles at him and his fingers linger on Dean's skin before pulling away fully. It occurs to Dean that Cas is looking as excited and nervous as Dean sort of feels, and that somehow takes the edge off Dean’s nerves. Dean doesn’t really care about what’s ‘normal’ and ‘not normal,’ and he’s never gotten any sign that Cas does, either. For some reason, that takes a lot of the pressure off.

Dean can't help but stare at Cas in the dimming daylight as they step out into the parking lot. Sunset isn't until after seven, but by five the light quality starts to dip, and it makes Cas into a picture that takes Dean's breath away. As they make the way to the car, the angel inside Cas is nowhere to be seen. He's relaxed and soft around the edges. With his collar open like that, he seems vulnerable, but in a good way.

He smiles at Dean over the roof of the car and it's like sunshine peeking out of clouds for how warm it makes him feel. They hold hands in the car as Dean starts the ignition, rings clinking solidly. The feel and sound of it is weirdly grounding, and Dean doesn't even feel too much concern about the fact that they're about to be very publicly dating. Hell, it might be the end of the world tomorrow. Who cares if anyone sees them holding hands?

Dean actually gets lost on the way to the restaurant, and shit, that hasn't happened to him in a long time. He says it's Cas's fault, because Cas is supposed to be navigating. Cas says it's his, because watching him drive Baby one-handed like that in the dimming light is 'captivating.'

(Goddammit. Cas really can't say shit like that aloud.)

Dean doesn't know when or if he's ever had Greek food, but Cas chuckles. "I think you'll like it," he tells him. "It's got a lot of lemon and spice. And yoghurt. We had a gyro" he pronounces it 'yee-roh,' with a little cant to his voice that Dean really likes "cart near my university that I went to for lunch quite a lot."

Dean wrinkles his nose playfully. "I don't know if yoghurt belongs in food. That sounds like the sort of thing Sammy has for breakfast."

His mood sours for just a second at the thought of Sam, and...

But Cas's smile at him has too much mischief to let that hang around for long. "I would make you a bet that you would like it," he says, primly, "but since I have seen inside your body and soul, it doesn't seem fair."

Dean snorts. They're in small-town Maryland, so Dean expects at least some kind of sideways look when they walk into the little Greek restaurant. Together. Hand-in-hand. Cas doesn’t try to let go. Neither does Dean. Not even when the eyes of the middle-aged lady manning the check-in podium drop to their joined fingers.

But then Cas talks to the proprietor in _fucking Greek_ , and they're ushered immediately into what Dean is pretty sure is the best seat in the house.

"Oh, you show-off," he breathes.

Cas graces him with a tiny smirk. "We don't all have shiny black cars with big rumbly engines to fall back on when we need to look cool."

Well, that's fair, Dean supposes. That being said, Dean has one car, he bets Cas probably has more than one language under his belt.

They get a platter of tiny food bites and two bottles of beer that have lettering on it that looks Greek set in front of them before either of them even talks to a waitress or picks up a menu. Dean gives Cas a look. He just shrugs and reaches for something that looks like a miniature pen-sized egg roll, dipping it into a bowl of something thick and white.

Definitely a show-off.

The food, however, is amazing, and yeah, the yoghurt works really well with the warm spice that all of the meat seems to have. The beer is also pretty darned good, but Dean makes a point to drink it slowly and mostly stick with water.

He has plans, sure, but he also wants to remember this day with as much clarity as possible. Their table is intimate and out of the way, the dim lighting setting a mood that Dean appreciates. He and Cas sit close together, leaning in, closer than Dean might normally feel comfortable with. But he can't help it. Their ankles have been twined together since about two seconds after they sat down. 

Dean finds he's missed these quiet moments. There haven't been many during the last week, despite them spending it entirely alone, together, and with their own hotel room. With Sam—with everything—the quiet hasn’t been easy or comfortable, just… tense. This, though? This is comfortable.

Cas looks like he's thinking the same thing, lowering his lamb kebab to watch Dean eat the piece that he slipped onto Dean's plate. Dean wasn't sure he'd like lamb; he's very sure he's never had it before. It’s like beef, but not: it's sort of meaty and fatty, with a crisp layer of fat at the edge that melts on his tongue, and a strong aftertaste that’s downright delicious. It’s also got a peppery spice coating that leaves a slow burn on the back of his tongue. Dean coughs and swigs his water. Cas's eyes laugh at him, and he pushes the bowl of cucumber yoghurt—Cas calls it tzatziki, and it sounds disgusting, but it's surprisingly good—towards Dean’s side of the table.

"This is nice," Cas says. "I’m happy that we can have this."

He sounds so grateful that it makes Dean's eyes sting a bit in a way that's not the pepper. "Did you, um. Date a lot? When, you know." He's pretty sure he knows what the answer is, though.

Cas shrugs. "I did," he answers, a little to Dean's surprise. Well, okay, that puts more pressure on Dean than he was expecting. "For a while. Everyone told me I should, that I should... want to. And I did, I suppose, I just... I didn't know that this was what I was looking for." Their feet clunk together gently in their shoes. "So I'm grateful that I can have this, with you. That I can know what I was missing."

They trade plates, and after a while, the wait staff just start putting everything in the middle. And by everything, Dean means _everything_. He stares at the spread, then looks up at Cas, who looks a little sheepish. "Jesus, Cas, how much did you order?"

"I didn't, um, specifically," Cas answers. "Um, I just said that we wanted to celebrate." He eyes the plates suspiciously. "I think that meant something different to them than to me."

Dean laughs and pops a bite of lemony, garlicky chicken and follows it up with a spoonful of the best-tasting rice he's ever had. Rice is usually a way to finish the sauce that comes with Chinese takeout. This rice is a whole different world: it’s got enough lemon to brighten up the chicken, some sort of dark smoky spice, and little bits of spinach that Dean is trying to pretend aren’t there even though they’re delicious. But there’s something else. He has to have another bite of it to try and figure out the something fresh that hangs out on the back of his tongue.

Cas is watching him, smiling, when Dean looks up. “Spanakorizo,” he says. “What you’re tasting is the dill.”

“Mind reading is cheating,” Dean grumbles, and Cas chuckles.

If asked, Dean would say that finding things to talk about that have nothing to do with hunting would be nearly impossible, but they manage. Cas talks about him and Jimmy against the world, twins that no one could tell apart despite their obvious differences.

"You're super easy to tell apart," Dean comments. The confusion about it will never make sense. It’s not even a _question _.__

__"Just to you and Amelia," Cas says quietly. "Sometimes our parents could tell who was who, but you two have been the only ones who consistently manage it."_ _

__"People are dumb," Dean scoffs, softly, but it's hard to deny that he's sort of pleased. "Well, at least I don't have to worry 'bout goosing the wrong twin in the kitchen in the mornings."_ _

__Cas's head tips to the side. He raises an eyebrow, silently._ _

__Dean realizes what he said just a second too late, and he feels the flush start behind his ears and creep its way onto his cheeks. "Uh, I mean, I..." Actually, Dean has no idea what the fuck he meant._ _

__Cas steals the next bite of chicken off Dean’s plate and chews, thoughtfully, with a little 'hmm' of appreciation. His tongue flicks pink over his upper lip before he says, casually, "Well, it would be unlikely to begin with, because Jimmy can't cook. So he'd be sitting at the table." His eyes narrow with laughter. "Also, I don't think you've ever 'goosed' me. Am I missing out?"_ _

__Cas doesn't say anything about the fact that Dean mentioned a future—hell, one where they might be in the same place as Jimmy and Amelia to even make that mistake, and Dean's grateful._ _

__Dean sips his beer and gives Cas a deliberate, slow look-over. "Well one of us would certainly have enjoyed it... but considering most of the opportunities would have had Bobby as a witness, I think we're both better off with just adding that to a future to-do list." He winks, steadfastly ignoring that he's once again referenced a nebulous future that he can barely contemplate, let alone plan for._ _

__Cas chooses a piece of beef off his own plate and chews thoughtfully. "Fair point. I'll just warn you to time it carefully, there's nothing worse than ruining a pancake with an ill-timed flip."_ _

__"That would be a tragedy," Dean confirms. He finds himself talking a little about his own cooking adventures—some from when he was a kid and they ended up in an extended stay motel with a kitchenette or a hot plate, some more recent. Dean thinks the one appeal to having a stationary place to live might be a kitchen, with a real fridge and real stove. Food's always been kind of a thing for him, anyone who knows him knows that, but it's more than just an obsession with shitty junk food._ _

__He's had incredibly shitty burgers, sometimes, but most places with more than four cars in the lot can handle cooking up a decent one. And french fries are just as hard to fuck up, even though yeah, Dean's had some real shitty fries, too. It's why he likes sandwiches so much: most of the ingredients don't need extra prep work, but Dean can still create something multi-textured and tasty without a kitchen._ _

__Cas ends up talking about his days in a dorm room: the extra-long twin sized bed, the lack of privacy, but also the bright promise of separation from his parents’ watchful eyes and the breathing space he needed to find himself. It was also the period of time he was away from Jimmy the longest: they both did their studies in Chicago, but didn’t go to college at the same school._ _

__"I missed him, desperately," Cas admits. "More than I realized I would, because before that, he was always _there_ —always. But I think we both needed that time. I’m glad he had it. It's when he met Amelia, after all. I think if we'd been sharing a dorm that might never have happened."_ _

__Dean licks his lips, slowly. He reaches across the table and slides his fingertips just under Cas's. "I, uh. Wish I could say the same 'bout when Sammy ran away," he says, very quietly. He's pretty sure that if Cas hadn't been an angel, he wouldn't have heard him at all, but he can see he’s got all of Cas’s attention now. "Probably the worst time of my life. Well. Almost. But I'm sure it was good for him. He got to go to college."_ _

__Dean doesn't talk about this. Not with Sam, not with anyone. But if they're going to confess truths, now's the time to do it._ _

__But Cas is looking at him with a small frown. "Sam... ran away?" And Dean realizes: he's so damned used to Cas just _knowing_ things about Dean that it's a surprise when Cas shows he's still learning about Dean as much as Dean's learning about him. Cas's hands slide further over to cover both of his._ _

__Dean puffs out a long, slow breath. "Yeah," he says, hoarsely. "I mean, he ran away a bunch of times, but that was the big one. He ran away at, I dunno, nineteen, and stayed away. Had himself a whole little apple pie life goin', you know? He always wanted out of the whole... biz.” he shakes his head, sadly. He can still hear Sam’s voice in his ear from just a few hours ago. “Then he got dragged right back in. Me, well, I was always gonna be a hunter."_ _

__"You're a good one," Cas says, quietly, fiercely. "Look where you are now. Look what you’re doing now."_ _

__"'Cause of you, buddy," Dean points out, wryly. In this case, it's really, literally true._ _

__Cas doesn't deny it. "And because of _all of us_ , maybe we will all have a chance at something like apple pie, afterwards." Then he wrinkles his nose. "That's not the expression, but you understand what I mean."_ _

__Dean looks away then, his chin dropping. "Cas, I don't know if I can—" he clears his throat. Goddammit, they weren't supposed to be talking about this yet. "I don't know if I can retire. Not really."_ _

__Cas's fingertips press down on his. "I know," he says. He sounds completely calm._ _

__Dean's head pops back up. "But don't you want—I don't know. Don’t you want to go back to your life? You said you were thinking about removing your grace."_ _

__Cas's fingers slide up on Dean's hand until he's covering the whole thing. He squeezes again and rubs his thumb down the sides of Dean’s palm. "I don't know what I want to do,” he says, deliberately, “other than to not remain ageless and unchanging in the face of what will most likely be the most graceless aging in all of history."_ _

__"Hey!" Dean barks, but it's more full of choked emotion than actual anger._ _

__Cas smirks his tiny little smile at him, and his fingers trace between Dean's. "And who's to say you can't have a version of apple pie as a hunter?" His smile is wry. "I'm not exactly a war wife, Dean. I'm not going to stop you from doing something you've spent your whole life doing. You’ve been a hunter the entire time I’ve known you, both in my reality, and, I think, in my dreams. But it would be nice to not have the world _ending_."_ _

__"I'll drink to that," Dean tips his nearly-empty beer towards Cas. They smile at each other. The clink of their bottles sounds loud—like a promise, like a bell. "To the world not ending."_ _

__The waiter slips a little black folio onto the table between them. Cas snatches it before Dean can, and this time, Dean's laughing. "Hey!" he complains, again. "I asked you on this date."_ _

__Cas leans in and whispers, "And I'm the one with the legal credit cards and virtually no expenses," and leans back to flip it open while Dean is still scowling at him. Yeah, okay, so that’s true: Cas’s accounts weren’t even put on hold, since Jimmy never reported him missing and he was supposed to be ‘on leave’ from work. Jimmy still had all his credit and bank cards._ _

__Then Cas frowns._ _

__"Sticker shock?" Dean asks, smirking._ _

__"No..." Cas looks up, but it looks like the wait staff are busy serving the other few customers on the other end of the restaurant. Dean hasn't missed that they seem to have been seated to give them maximum privacy. He turns the folio towards Dean._ _

__There isn't a bill in it. Just a little restaurant business card that says "CONGRATULATIONS, NEWLYWEDS!"_ _

__Dean almost chokes. "You told them we were _married?_ " he hisses._ _

__Cas goes scarlet. "No! I... didn't?"_ _

__Dean stares at him and then looks down at the span of table that was, until recently, holding their joined hands. He feels their legs twined beneath the table, and his whole body is aware of how little space is between them. He sighs. Right. Well, as long that's happening, he might as well..._ _

__Dean raises himself up and leans across the tiny table and into Cas's personal space, what little there is that's left of it. He grazes their noses together before finishing the move with a light press of lips._ _

__Cas makes a happy noise, but he pulls away a little quicker than normal. "You don't have to do this, Dean,” he murmurs. “There's a difference between keeping secrets and being private."_ _

__Dean smiles and ducks his head just a little. He’s pretty sure there’s no one in the restaurant right now who thinks they’re being all that private. "I'm not saying I'm ready to full-on make out on the street corner. But this?" He leans in again, slowly, carefully, and with purpose, and kisses Cas again. It's chaste—well, as chaste as they ever get, with the way everything just seems better when they touch. But it's light and genuine, and just a little nervous. It's actually a new kind of kiss for Dean._ _

__Cas hums into it and Dean can taste his nervousness on his lips. When they part, Dean lingers close, still leaning over the table, but doesn't kiss him again. A thought occurs to him. "This is new for you, too, isn't it?"_ _

__It's amazing that that, of all the things they've said and done to each other, makes Cas blush. "I realize," he says, just a little stiffly, "that that's a little silly in a man my age and experience, but to be fair, I did grow up in the Midwest. And prior to, well, humanity, it wouldn't have occurred to me to care."_ _

__"Because angels don't kiss, much less in public?" Dean thinks that says a lot about angels, none of it good._ _

__Cas's mouth twists, very gently. "I suppose angels could. If pillars of light can kiss. Which... well." And while Dean's blinking a little owlishly at him, Cas shakes his head. "Angels don't love."_ _

__Shit, now Dean's blushing. He tugs on Cas's hand. "C'mon," he murmurs. "Let's get out of here."_ _

__But before they go, Dean stuffs a wad of cash into the folio. Screw it. Either they're gonna die tomorrow or Dean can hustle more pool._ _

__He knows he spends pretty much most of his life helping out people who will never understand, or who have no way of saying thanks, but that's okay. That's just the way it goes. Good deeds, nice things, don't happen that often. It's rare that someone does something nice for _them_ , though, just... because._ _

__His pointer finger hooks around Cas's as they're leaving. The soft-faced proprietor—or at least Dean assumes that's who that is, she's the same one who lit up when Cas spoke Greek to her—is still at the front. She reaches up to cup Cas's face and kisses him on both cheeks, murmuring something to him in Greek._ _

__Cas is smiling bemusedly, a little sadly, as they wander out to Baby._ _

__"What did she say?" Dean asks._ _

__"That she and her partner wish us both the best," Cas says, quietly, "and that she hopes one day we'll be able to be proudly married for real."_ _

__Dean blinks and glances back at the front of the restaurant from his driver's side door. It's the side closer to the entrance, so Cas is there with him. He nudges Dean with his elbow until Dean looks back at him. "You've spent your entire life as part of one secret society." Cas says. "Is it so strange to be a part of another?"_ _

__Dean shrugs. "A little?" The comparison isn't quite spot on, but Dean gets what Cas is saying. There's just so much about this that's strange for him and even though Cas is… Cas, Dean never really thought that hard about what it might be like, coming out. Even when he knew it wasn’t just the ladies that revved his engine, even when he went out and tried it with guys. He guesses that's his own hangup. Honestly, the married thing might be throwing him just as much; it's hard to tell._ _

__"It's strange for me, too," Cas says, after they've gotten in the car and Dean has them on the road to their next stop. It's nearby. "I'm not used to being pegged right away like that. For a while I would have considered it dangerous to even come close to being identified as gay, regardless of whether it was someone who wouldn't care in the least."_ _

__Dean’s pulling them into a public pay lot before he’s even managed to untangle what he wants to say in response, but it's okay, because Cas never seems to expect him to say something when he can't. When they get out, Dean hits the trunk and grabs the thick blanket in the back. They've got about 40 minutes to sunset, and it's been a long time since Dean's seen that as anything other than a monster alarm._ _

__He's looking forward to seeing what a spring sunset feels like with Cas pressing up next to him, thigh to thigh, maybe with their fingers tangled together between them._ _

__Cas is looking around interestedly as they walk into the largest city park in the area—probably a county park, honestly, around these parts. But it's nice: grass cut through with walking lanes, trees stretching as far as the eye can see. There's a little bike path twining through the trees—Dean smiles at the memory of teaching Sam to bike; that was probably the last time he even was on one, since he's never owned one._ _

__Dean leads them deeper, along the bike path, past a trio of teenagers playing Frisbee and a family watching their toddler roll over and over in the grass. The line of trees breaks and gives a view of the horizon from edge to edge, the edge of the sun just barely starting to dip into red. The sky's just beginning to fade out._ _

__"How did you know...?" Cas asks, confused and delighted and so squinty. "You haven't been here before. Have you?"_ _

__Dean chuckles, ruefully. "Saw the tree break when we were driving. Trust me, when the monsters come out at night, you get real good at figuring out when and where you're gonna lose visibility." He spreads out the blanket and unbuttons the cuffs on his button-down, rolling them up to the elbow. "Ever done anything like this?"_ _

__Cas shakes his head. His chin is already tilted upwards to watch some clouds scudding purple over the edge of the sky. His lips are rosy and a little parted with wonder, like he's never really watched a sunset. Maybe he hasn't._ _

__"Yeah," Dean admits. "Me neither."_ _

__They get settled quickly. Dean chooses a fluffy patch of grass in the vee between two large tree roots. It gives them a spot to lean against if they want it. If asked, Dean would say that spending 30 or 40 minutes staring off into the skyline is boring work, unless there's something out there he’s waiting to find._ _

__Somehow, sitting together, Cas leaning into him warm and content and looking into the distance, and every so often saying something quietly, is far more entertaining that Dean would have ever given it credit for. Cas’s eyes as he watches the colors change are wide with the kind of wonder Dean's sure he ran out of sometime around when his house caught fire as a child._ _

__Except, when he looks at Cas, he feels this sort of lightness in his chest that expands so much he thinks it should run out of room, but it never does. The pinks and oranges bring a light to Cas's skin and just as the last sliver of red sun squeezes down over the skyline, Cas meets his eyes. He tilts in and kisses him soft and sweet, and Dean thinks 'holy shit, I'm a cliche.'_ _

__Dean swallows the lump in his throat, then has to try twice more before the words actually make it out. "No sunsets in Heaven?" he asks, only teasing a little. The sky is still pinks and purples, and Cas's eyes are almost violet in their light. Jesus fucking Christ, he's gorgeous._ _

__"Well... there are, in different people's heavens," Cas answers, close enough that his lips are still whispering against Dean's skin. He makes it very clear it's intentional by moving an inch to the right. "But they're an illusion." Another inch. "And as an angel, I could see the walls." Dean half-closes his eyes as Cas's lips brush the corners of his jaw. "I liked them on Earth, but they look different viewed in the electromagnetic spectrum." He nips very gently at the angle of Dean’s jawline, and Dean almost jumps._ _

__"You're not allowed to give me a hard-on over weird nerd... metaphysical stuff, Cas," Dean warns._ _

__(It might be too late for that.)_ _

__Cas chuckles into his ear, gives him one last nibble, and pulls back slightly. "Boundary noted." He's smiling, though._ _

__Dean finds himself tugged gently backwards. The angle of the roots they’re sitting against is more comfortable than he’d thought, but that might be because Cas is curling up fully against Dean’s side, head pressing into Dean’s shoulder, his arm sliding behind Dean’s back. It's dark enough now that two people in shadow by a tree won't be easy to spot, and Dean knows that Cas intentionally waited until now to cuddle. It helps a lot that not only is Cas so very careful with Dean, to the point where Dean feels guilty because Cas never would have brought up how difficult it was to hide from Sam if someone else hadn't first, but that he usually understands what Dean needs or is capable of in any given moment._ _

__It's not quite the same for Dean with Cas, but he's getting better at figuring it out._ _

__Right around when the last purple band of sky is slowly disappearing into inky blue, Cas lifts his head from Dean's shoulder. "Is that music?"_ _

__Dean's first thought is "Wait, shit, angel radio?" Because that's his life. Their life, really. That would be all kinds of bad, because if angel radio is on, that probably means they _mean_ for Cas to hear it._ _

__His second thought is, "Is that the start of the cheesiest pick-up line in the history of cheese?"_ _

__His third is, "Okay, Cas is a weird, corny nerd, but he's more likely to hit on me with a quote from the Quran or something."_ _

__He blinks, slowly, and pulls his head back so he can look Cas in the eye. "Angel radio?" Dean says, finally, because of the options there, that's the only one that's likely to get them stabbed._ _

__Cas squints at him. "What? No." Then he blinks, and smirks. "Dean, angel radio doesn't actually sound like the _radio_ , and angelic harmony is a metaphor for light waves."_ _

__"Again with the freakin' metaphysics," Dean complains, but he feels the bunch of his shoulders relax. "What are you talking about, then?"_ _

__Cas tips his chin up, half-closing his eyes. "No, I mean... actual music. Can't you hear it?"_ _

__Dean stops to listen. He has to actually hold his breath to get more than two or three notes at a time, but yeah, he hears music. Far away, though._ _

__Cas is already standing. "Let's go look."_ _

__And Dean can't resist, because Cas just looks so interested and Dean's pretty happy just orbiting nearby while Cas finds things interesting. They follow one of the footpaths, now well-lit by hidden lamps. Dean follows along, and it’s probably another fifteen minutes of walking quietly through stretches of grass and trees before he can tell they’re definitely headed in the right direction. After that, with each step the music gets louder._ _

__But he blinks as they step out of a line of dark trees and into what almost looks like a tiny little lit-up fair, or something, set up in a large clearing: people chattering, a bunch of little food stalls. A large, angled tent stretches off into the distance, and the music seems to be coming from it._ _

__Cas pulls them over to a street vendor and confidently orders them three flavors of churros in _Spanish_. Jesus Christ that's never not going to be just a little bit hot. Yeah, the cart smells fantastic—Dean can smell frying from all the way across the footpath; he’s never had a churro, but it’s deep-fried bread with stuff on it, he’s definitely heard of them. That’s not why his mouth waters for a second, though. _ _

__The churros look fucking fantastic: long, narrow, golden-brown cylinders gleaming with sugar and heat in the little hanging lights strung between the vendor carts. Cas bites down on the end of one that Dean suspects, from the smell of it, is cinnamon sugar, with a happy little "Hmm."_ _

__Dean waits for him to finish chewing—hey, they're on a date, he can be polite—before he asks, "How many languages do you speak, anyway?"_ _

__Cas licks crystals of sugar, orange in the park lights, off the corner of his mouth, and offers Dean one of the churros. "Officially?"_ _

__Dean nibbles carefully on the edge of the churro. Holy shit, it's like carnival fried dough but with all these amazing little ridges that have caught the sugar in them. It crunches sweetly between his teeth; sugar crumbles onto his tongue and sparks down his chin, and he almost forgets he's trying to have manners tonight. So he actually does very intentionally finish chewing before he talks again. "Is there an 'unofficially?'"_ _

__When he looks over in the silence, though, Cas is staring at him. "Now I know we're on a date," he says, eyes wide._ _

__Dean kicks the side of his shoe. "You are such an _asshole_ ," he grumps. Yeah, they'll see if Dean ever tries being polite again. He has not forgotten that ‘table manners’ comment, dammit._ _

__Cas ducks away with a smile that Dean can clearly see even in the lantern light. Cas is lucky Dean’s hands are full with the blanket and his churro._ _

__"Try this one." Cas trades him for a second churro, but this one is sealed at the ends. Huh._ _

__Dean bites into it and warm, melted sweetness spills from the middle onto his tongue—holy crap that might be heaven in his mouth. "Is that chocolate?" he asks—this time, before he even chews._ _

__"That's much better," Cas comments, grinning. "And technically, I think it's a chocolate-hazelnut spread."_ _

__Dean takes another bite and moans, "It's amazing." He offers the half-eaten stick over to Cas for a taste. Cas doesn’t take the churro back, though: he nibbles on the tip of it without taking it out of Dean's hand, his eyes looking into Dean’s all the while. That's a whole ‘nother shiver that runs down Dean's back. Okay then._ _

__Cas chews, delicately, and swallows. "To answer your question: unofficially, as an angel, language is not a barrier I tend to have."_ _

__"So the... speaking all human languages thing is real," Dean notes—just a little jealously. "Guess that makes sense." They're getting closer to the tent, where the music's coming from. It's an orchestra: strings and flutes and stuff, Dean can hear the high trill of them. There's the boom of one of those big drums. Not what Dean normally likes to listen to, but what the hell, why not._ _

__There's something... kind of familiar about it, though._ _

__Cas bobs his chin. "I do speak Greek, though, officially. Did. And Arabic. Latin, of course. Some Hebrew, though I'm not particularly good."_ _

__"And Spanish," Dean adds, taking another bite of the chocolatey churro. This time, when he holds it out to Cas, he's less surprised that Cas doesn't take it, just sucks gently on the end. Goddammit, Cas is trying to _kill him_._ _

__Cas's eyes twinkle at him. He licks chocolate off the dip of his upper lip. "No, I never actually learned that."_ _

__Goddammit._ _

__Dean's about to comment on how Cas really is a professional nerd when something about the riff of the music catches his attention. He stalls. Holds out a hand to stop Cas, too, as he listens._ _

__Then he tosses his head back and laughs so hard he almost drops the blanket._ _

__Holy shit. They're playing _Star Wars.__ _

__Cas watches him catch his breath with patience before they continue towards the music, though now Dean’s pulling Cas behind him. "It does sound vaguely familiar, is it a composer you know?" he asks, and Dean has serious trouble telling exactly how hard Cas is punking him right that moment._ _

__The crescendo of the Imperial March is just hitting its stride when they finally reach the open air theater. What Dean thought was a tent is just a sort of backdrop sitting behind the orchestra, which is located at the base of a long shallow slope of hill, speakers set up in a perimeter. There's actual seating up close, with folding chairs, but laid out on the grass behind the chairs there are dozens of blankets containing little groupings of people. There are a lot of people, but it’s a big space: it’s not too hard to find an open spot near the back that doesn't feel so exposed that Dean won't be able to relax. Dean spreads the blanket and they get settled, finishing off the last of their snack (the last churro is filled with salted caramel, and Cas sucks a little bit on that one, too) before they even hit Luke's theme._ _

__Yeah, Dean knows Luke's theme. He's watched those movies nearly a hundred times, stuff like that sinks in. Dean's never heard live music like this, though. Yeah, he's been to concerts, CBGB; he’s paid or snuck in to see bands on stage. That kind of shit. But orchestras never interested him. He's never been near one that was playing, and the closest he's gotten is some decent surround sound, or maybe a busker trio on a street corner in a big city._ _

__This, though: he can practically feel the layers of instruments on his skin, in his chest. He almost flinches when the drums ricochet through his bones. Something that sounds like a flute, but higher, raises the hair at the back of his neck._ _

__It's nearly religious. It’s almost an out-of-body experience._ _

__Dean closes his eyes as they start into Han Solo's theme, and little goosebumps run up and down his arms._ _

__It's a long moment later when the orchestra segues off into the familiar main theme. "Damn," Dean mutters with a little happy sigh as they flare up into the final chord, and rubs the middle of his chest where he can still feel the boom of the drums. Then he joins in the loud applause. Maybe whoops once or twice._ _

__Beside him, Cas chuckles. Dean almost jumps. When he looks over, Cas has crossed his legs and leaned an elbow on the crook of the inside of his knee. His smile is almost unbearably fond. "You don't even look that way when you're listening to Led Zeppelin," he says, into what seems to be a deafening sort of silence even with the happy chatter and the smattering of people who haven't stopped clapping._ _

__Dean sort of wants to blush, but he's also not even sure why. "Uh... it's, I dunno. Not the same thing," he admits, though he's not even sure why._ _

__Cas touches his knee, very gently, then lifts his hand away. "You don't have to explain," he says, softly. "Live music is a gift. Just enjoy it, and I'll enjoy you."_ _

__Now Dean does blush, but it's too dark for anyone but maybe someone with angel senses to pick up on it. The lights for the concert are mostly down by the stage, and at the back here, pretty low while the performance is still going on. Dean reaches out and takes Cas's hand and puts it back on his knee. He can feel Cas's happiness radiating outward like a beacon that only Dean can see and feel._ _

__It's a good feeling, and he enjoys it all the way through the Indiana Jones Interlude. Somewhere in the middle of the rousing chorus, Dean finds his Zen place—something he usually can't do without music _and_ the open road under his wheels, a successful hunt behind him and his brother in the passenger seat. _ _

__But somehow, in a low-lit field behind a makeshift open air stage, with music thrumming through his veins and Cas warm at his side, Dean finds a kind of peace he's never known or ever thought he could have._ _

__Cas leans towards him. His thumb brushes over the side of Dean’s nose, the arc of his cheekbone, and comes away wet and shining. He doesn’t move back away, his eyes dark infinities as he stops pretending he’s watching anything but Dean. Dean presses their foreheads together and tries to explain, fuck; he doesn’t even know where that tear came from. But he's too full of just goddamned everything right now, and it all catches in his throat._ _

__"Shh," Cas says, but he doesn't need to. He doesn't try to kiss him. Like this, in the not-dark, Dean thinks he doesn't have to. He smiles, and Dean answers it._ _

__They smile together through the theme of Jaws. Cas whispers, excitedly, "I know this one!" when the Lord of the Rings starts up, and okay, that's so fucking cute that Dean drops a kiss to the tip of his nose, and doesn't even look around to see if anyone's watching._ _

__They separate again for Harry Potter—Cas does _not_ know this one, what the heck, and Dean snorts with laughter. "Now you've gotta give back your nerd card," he whispers back. And somehow that doesn't break the mood, either._ _

__They pack it in a little after ten. The concert is probably going to go on for a half hour more or so, but Dean wants to avoid the crowds. He's also more than ready to be alone with Cas. Having people around, having to gauge all his reactions against his own issues as well as the thought of everyone else's, is apparently pretty darned taxing. He's not ready to sleep, not by a long shot, but he's ready for privacy._ _

__Their motel isn't far away. They don't really talk between standing and folding the blanket up and, finally, opening the door to their room._ _

__Well, no, they definitely communicate, just not with words._ _

__Inside they both unload their pockets, plug their phones in and strip out of their shoes and socks. It's nothing earth-shattering, but Dean thinks they both have a pretty good idea where the evening is going to end and have decided to just get the little details out of the way first._ _

__"So," Dean eventually says, tugging Cas to him by one wrist as easily as magnets attracting. Cas goes willingly, without even a hint of resistance and Dean knows Cas can put up a whole lot of resistance if he wants. "I've been thinking." He slings both arms around Cas, clasping them together at the small of Cas's back. "Tomorrow's job is really dangerous." He drops his head to rest on Cas's, forehead to forehead. "This might be our last night on earth."_ _

__They're not even kissing, but he feels Cas smile. It goes through his face, the points where they're touching, straightens his shoulders. Cas lifts a hand, but he doesn't touch—just hovers his fingertips a heartbeat over Dean's skin. "Stealing all the lines tonight, Dean?" he whispers._ _

__"You know me," Dean answers, with a cocky flash of a grin he can feel through his whole face. "I'm a bad, bad man."_ _

__But when Cas settles the back of a finger against Dean's cheek, they both shiver. He strokes it back and forth, and just that little touch—here, in the privacy of what is their room for the night—makes Dean's collar feel too tight. And it's already unbuttoned._ _

__He thinks Cas is going to deny it. Tell him that he's a good person, that he was worth rescuing. Cas gets so damned earnest that way, sometimes._ _

__Instead, his angel's smile curves—just a little naughty. "I hope so," he answers. "I've spent the whole night being very patient."_ _

__Dean's eyebrows go up. "Oh, have you?" He pulls Cas that much closer, pressing their chests together nicely. The warm scent of Cas, ionized air and a shampoo Dean can't quite name, wafts into his nose._ _

__“Oh, yes.” Cas spreads his hand flat on Dean's chest, palm over heart, fingers stretching out and brushing just at the base of Dean's neck. "Practically a saint." He winks._ _

__Dean laughs, because an angel patiently waiting to get laid describing himself as a saint is one of the funniest things Dean's thought of in years. Cas swallows the sounds in a kiss that goes on and on. When they finally pull away, Dean’s panting, his lips are tingling, and Cas's hands are tangled in his hair._ _

__Cas tugs. Just a little. And little shivers of anticipation go down Dean's back as Cas gently nudges his head to the side, baring the left side of his neck._ _

__They turn into shudders as Cas tucks his face into the line of it, turning his cheek from side to side—nuzzling, and the tiny rough scrape of his stubble against Dean's skin makes his toes want to curl._ _

__They definitely curl when Cas continues kissing down his shoulder, through his shirt, towards..._ _

__They sigh together when Cas's lips meet the tip of a handprint finger, even through his button-down. As always, the feeling zings deep into Dean's bones, but in a hum of pleasure that's too different to ever put into words._ _

__"Still can't believe how that feels," Dean mutters, his right arm clutching at Cas’s back as Cas sprinkles delicate kisses along an outline he can’t even see._ _

__"It's very nice for me, too," Cas answers, the breath of it hot against the cloth. The heat diffuses through it and feeling thrums happily through Dean's body. "Completion is a wonderful experience." He hums against the fabric briefly before leaving it to kiss a line back up Dean's neck and jaw._ _

__Dean's eyes are closed, but he feels the pull of the smile. "Completion, huh?" He sighs again when Cas nuzzles right under his jaw. It's soft and gentle, just barely a caress, and Dean's not had a lot of opportunities for that kind of touching. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"_ _

__"Theoretically," Cas murmurs into his ear, "either I'm a little bit older than you or a whole lot older than you, so hearing you talk about 'the kids' is very amusing." His smile makes it real. The hand he snakes over Dean's hip to cup the small of his back, pulling them together, makes it better._ _

__Neither of them's all the way hard yet, but they're both hard enough to make the contact a little bump and grind. And goddammit, they are not going to come in their goddamned pants today._ _

__It's when Cas buries his head in Dean's neck and snickers that Dean realizes he said that aloud._ _

__"Can I help it if you look incredibly appealing only half out of your clothing?" Cas asks, voice full of mirth. "Everything about you is very distracting, Dean." He rolls his hips gently for emphasis._ _

__"Yeah, well," Dean's hands tighten on Cas's hips briefly. Goddamn, that little hip wiggle is a nice feeling too. "If you weren't so buttoned and layered-up all the time, just seeing your forearms wouldn't be such a fucking turn-on."_ _

__"Are you blaming me for our little clothing problem?" Cas sucks gently on the skin under Dean’s jaw, pulling into his mouth briefly before letting it go and kissing the wet patch after._ _

__Dean shudders a tiny bit, hips rocking slowly. He’s still not fully hard, but getting there: definitely feeling that buzz under his skin. "Yeah, I am," Dean murmurs, leaning into Cas's ear, which is right by his lips. He kisses it, briefly, sloppily. "Because you can't keep your hands off my handprint."_ _

__"But it's _my_ handprint," Cas protests, but Dean thinks it's just a little weaker. He's sure of it when Cas tips a little to give him better access._ _

__Dean skirts over the curve of his ear, following it to the soft patch just behind. "But it's on me," he whispers._ _

__"Yes, exactly," Cas murmurs. "That's what makes it particularly enticing." He tugs on the edge of Dean's shirt, fumbling blindly. His fingers rub back and forth against Dean's belly. "I'd like to see it now, actually. Please."_ _

__It's the ‘please’ that really does it: Cas being polite while turned on out of his mind might be Dean's new favorite kink. "Okay,” he chuckles, “but I don't have the angel mojo to put my buttons back on my shirt, so let's try this the old-fashioned way."_ _

__Cas grumbles good-naturedly but peels away from Dean's body by a few inches. Dean shivers at the cool air between them and has to force his hands off Cas's hips so that he doesn’t try to pull him back in. His fingers feel fat and uncoordinated, but years of getting undressed while drunk work in his favor._ _

__Cas, meanwhile, is tugging at the tails of Dean’s shirt, making sure they're free of his pants. By the time Dean gets the last button out, all Cas has to do is gently push the shirt off Dean's shoulders. With the cuffs already undone, it flutters down his arms and to the carpet without a single hint of effort._ _

__Cas makes a small, clipped-off noise of deep appreciation that makes Dean's cock perk up in his pants more than any words of praise ever have. The ache of it becomes a little uncomfortable when Cas's hands come right back from ridding him of his shirt._ _

__Cas starts tracing little patterns up and down Dean's chest with just his fingertips. Dean thinks it might be some kind of lettering, but the delicate arcs and lines leave hot little spurs behind every touch, and he loses track pretty soon._ _

__"Marking me up again?" he murmurs—then shivers at the memory of the last time Cas marked him up, and it sure as hell wasn't with his fingers._ _

__The way Cas licks his lips makes him pretty sure Cas is thinking of the same thing, too. "I was just tracing the patterns on your bones," Cas murmurs._ _

__Dean blinks, then grins. Huh. "You really are a possessive sonofabitch."_ _

__He means it as a joke, he really does. But Cas blinks back, slow and dazed. His smile was wide and genuine just a second ago, but it fades into something quiet, and a little sad. "It took me 32 years and several millennia to find you, Dean, I'm not letting you go unless you ask me to.” His hand splays over the small of Dean’s back. His thumb feathers back and forth, back and forth. “Do you want me to?”_ _

__Dean’s mouth drops open. “What?”_ _

__Cas’s smile is all the way gone, now, though, and his gaze is ancient and quiet and serious. “My name within you. I can… I can remove it.” He breathes out, slow and shaky. “You didn’t agree to that. Even if my reasoning…” he trails off and shakes his head in a jerky little motion. “It doesn’t matter what my reasoning was. I know what consent actually means, in a way that most angels don’t, and never will.”_ _

__Dean blinks, very slowly. “You can? I mean… without, y’know. Taking off all the rest of the protection stuff on there? Wiping yourself out?”_ _

__Cas, after a long moment, drops his eyes. He sees the rock and flutter of Cas’s throat moving as he swallows. “Yes,” he answers, finally, in a whisper. He studies the curve of his own hand. “It would… it would be simple. I don’t think it would even hurt.” His words are getting slower and slower. “You… you wouldn’t notice anything was different.”_ _

__Dean realizes that Cas has been thinking about this. Must have been thinking about this._ _

__He frowns. “Would _you_?”_ _

__Cas doesn’t nod or shake his head, but his lips are going white and he won’t raise his gaze anymore. “That really doesn’t matter.”_ _

__Which means, probably, ‘yes.’ Yeah. Cas’ll be able to look right at him and know that Dean wanted his name erased from under his skin. Even though it was protecting him._ _

__Dean is always somewhat aware that for all the ways they're both human, Cas is also an extremely old cosmic being. But sometimes, the way he talks about it, existing that way sounds so lonely. Maybe that's why angels don't do emotions the way humans do? Dean doesn't ever want Cas to be lonely again, but beyond that? He wants Cas to be able to build all of the memories possible. Just in case._ _

__Because Dean doesn't trust in fate or prophecy or any of that bullshit at all, and he's not sure which idea’s worse, Cas going first, or him._ _

__Dean knows he should still be mad about what Cas did. Maybe he will be, again, later. But at the end of this, probably one of the best days of Dean's entirely shitty life, he can't find it in him to be pissed off anymore. Wearing Cas's name so deep inside him no one can scrub it off doesn't even sound like a bad thing. If Dean goes out tomorrow? He wants Cas to know it’s _there_. That it’ll always be there._ _

__That Dean _wanted_ it there._ _

__Yeah, in a way it was a gift. Cas still shouldn’t have done it the way he did, but hell, Dean does not ever want to be an angel vessel… and he’s agreed to a lot of really stupid, shitty things in the name of protecting the people he cares about._ _

__“Hey. Well, I like it where it is, Cas,” he answers, gently, and reaches around to press his fingers on the ones Cas has resting on his back. “So you can touch and poke it all you want, but don’t make that go away, you hear? It’s mine, now.” He takes Cas's fingers from where they're sketching out bone-deep feelings, and draws them back around in front of himself, kissing them gently._ _

__Cas licks his lips. But he doesn’t ask if Dean’s sure. He just exhales for a little too long, slow and shaky, like he was holding his breath._ _

__Dean lets Cas’s hand go and puts a hand on Cas’s heartbeat, feeling the weight of him before he slides his hand midline and carefully starts on Cas's shirt. Usually, by the time they reach this point, Dean is pretty out of his mind, so he enjoys the almost-inaudible catch of breath Cas lets out when Dean's fingers slide through the buttons and graze his skin._ _

__“Dean,” Cas murmurs. It sounds like a prayer._ _

__"Never said I wasn't possessive either," he says, fingering a button. "’Cause I maybe am, a little. I can’t do the mark on your bones thing, but hickeys, I can do… right?" he continues, punctuating every few words, every button, with a kiss to the skin being revealed. "God, I just wanna eat you up."_ _

__Cas blinks a little dazedly. A smile just barely starts to lick up at the corner of his mouth again, replacing the scared, blank ache that took up residence for a moment there. "Yes, please?"_ _

__Okay, he used that right this time. Dean's crouched, now, and he goes to his knees. Kisses Cas's bellybutton. Licks a stripe up his treasure trail, his abs._ _

__Cas's little sigh vibrates on the tip of his tongue, and just like that, they’re right back in the warm, electric headspace where they started._ _

__Dean pops the button on Cas's pants, just so he can finish pulling Cas's shirt out, undoing those last two buttons. He looks up, then, sees Cas half out of his shirt, looking down at him like he's the only thing on earth, eyes starting to dilate wide and dark again. Fuck, he’s a sight. Dean has to shift his growing erection a little to keep himself comfortable._ _

__Cas groans and Dean winks before leaning back in to trace the contours of his belly button. Cas's right hand lands on his head, gentle and present, but not insistent. Dean has to close his eyes: he likes the feeling, the weight and pressure of it. He mouths up one set of abs and down another, nipping occasionally, enjoying feeling the muscles under his tongue jumping in pleasure._ _

__Cas's cock is a warm, thickening pulse under his chin and Dean's mouth waters a little._ _

__He stays on his knees to slowly undo Cas's zipper in a tickling rasp, careful—so careful, Cas is starting to get just as hard in there as Dean thinks he is in his own pants._ _

__He kisses the soft, worn cloth of Cas's dark grey, completely damned utilitarian boxers, and flicks the tip of his tongue against where he can already see a little dark wet patch starting to form. Cas almost goes up on his tiptoes with a small choked gasp. His cock, still all wrapped up, bobs and goes the rest of the way rigid against Dean's lips._ _

__Dean wants to explore that reaction for just about forever, but he can't do both that and everything else he wants to do—everywhere else he wants to touch and taste and bite._ _

__And feel._ _

__Cas's hand flexes in his hair before gentling, petting. "Stand up," he pleads. "I want to touch you, too."_ _

__Dean stands up so fast he might be lightheaded—he stands before he even realizes that he wasn't done touching yet. Then Cas's hands slide along his bare skin; his fingers slot along Dean's ribcage and slide around and down until the tips burrow under Dean's pants._ _

__Cas nuzzles closer, pressing their bare skin together, and Dean remembers now why it's so easy to get lost in this: it's because it feels so damn good. They kiss, because they can't possibly not be kissing if their lips are this close to each other. Dean moans into it, shifting one leg into the space between Cas's knees and pressing up._ _

__Cas sweeps into the kiss, tongue hot and seeking, leaning in and lighting Dean's whole body up._ _

__For a moment, as he feels Cas grind down against the denim-wrapped muscle of his thigh (oh for cryin' out loud, they're still clothed—why are they still clothed) Dean groans into Cas's mouth. Fuck, that's so hot—his weight on Dean’s leg, the restraint and strength of it._ _

__Dean wonders, for a single crazy, dizzying instant, if he'll ever be able to have sex with anyone else again. And it's a fucking weird thought, because not only has he not thought about sex with anyone else basically in the months since he met Cas... he sure as hell can't imagine going back to what he had. He can't even imagine wanting to._ _

__That decides him. As if there were even a decision to be made. He pulls his mouth away from Cas’s just long enough to yank at the band of Cas's boxers, peeking through his open fly._ _

__Cas hooks his fingers into Dean's belt loops. "You first," he growls, and it goes right to Dean's cock._ _

__Dean takes a half second to be grateful that they took their shoes off first, because fuck if his pants are staying on any longer than they have to. Dean undoes his own fly, hissing a little when the palm of his hand presses into his cock. Fuck, he's so hard. Cas takes over then, pulling at his belt loops again, sliding the stiff material of Dean’s jeans down his thighs._ _

__Dean's always liked watching other people get undressed, and in Cas's case also apparently getting dressed again, but having his own clothing stripped off him has always been a means to an end. Until now. Cas's eyes devour each new inch of skin. Dean finds himself just standing there and letting his pants fall to his ankles, while Cas runs warm thumbs over his hip bones and settles heated palms over the thin material of his boxers._ _

__Dean steps out of his pants because that's just an accident waiting to happen. He's got just enough brain cells to know he needs to leave the pants behind before he tugs at the soft slippery material barely being held up by Cas's thighs and slightly spread legs._ _

__Cas moves just enough to let his slacks fall to the ground, and Dean stares at the tenting of Cas's boxers, obscene and wet. He's trying to remember why he wanted them off again. God, he looks so good like this._ _

__When he looks up into Cas's face, pretty sure that something incredibly stupid is gonna come out of his mouth, Cas is staring right at the crotch of Dean's boxers, too._ _

__Cas licks his lips. Slowly. Dean's knees might just buckle a little._ _

__"You can hardly blame me for staring," Cas says, his voice coarse and gravelly. "It's been so hard not to look at you, these past few days. To not watch you dressing and undressing."_ _

__Dean blinks. Slowly. It seems like everything in his body is moving like hot syrup. "You... could've, I was right here," he points out. Then he grins. "Hell, I might've even put on a show for you."_ _

__Cas huffs softly at him. "If you think I can watch you undress and not want to have you naked on the bed—or the floor—or wherever you happen to be, you very strongly overestimate my restraint when it comes to you, Dean Winchester." And he pulls Dean in for a long, tongued, wet kiss._ _

__Cas presses their hips together in a sloppy roll, and if Dean was going to say anything, that empties his head right out into nothing but bliss with a side of happy pleasure running up his spine. There’s just two layers of knit cotton between them and it's not nearly enough to blot out the heat and feel of each other._ _

__It's the kind of kiss you only stop because either you stop or you pass out. Dean is very seriously considering passing out when their lips finally part. Cas noses his way down Dean's chin, dropping soft, frantic kisses down his neck and shoulder. Dean's knees are also at about all they can take: if things start feeling too much better, it'll be the floor for them._ _

__"Cas?" Dean asks, fingers threading through Cas's soft hair, fingernails bluntly scratching at his scalp. "Bed."_ _

__"Mmrph," Cas says, against the base of Dean's neck, and it's probably the least graceful noise that Dean has ever heard him make. Considering that Dean's angel sounds like he gargles with whiskey and salt a lot of the time, that's saying something._ _

__"C'mon," he coaxes, and starts tugging Cas backwards towards the bed with a hand behind his hip. It's not graceful. It's, hell, it's half a shuffle, their bodies bumping over and over because neither of them want to stop kissing for long enough to really watch where they're going. Fortunately, there’s nothing on the floor for them to trip over this time._ _

__Dean's almost a little startled when the backs of his knees hit the foot of the king bed, and gravity wins its battle: he sits down on it hard, his knees bumping between Cas's. He finds himself staring right into the middle of Cas's belly, Cas barely catching himself on Dean’s shoulder to keep them _both_ from toppling over._ _

__That puts Dean in a really good position to hook his thumbs into the band of Cas's boxers, though._ _

__And lean over to drop a wet, tongued kiss on the head of Cas’s cock—already slippery, damn, yeah—as it peeks flushed and happy over the waistband coming down._ _

__And maybe keep mouthing at the solid column of him as he's pulling the cloth down and away, running his hands down the sides of Cas's heavy, juicy thighs._ _

__Cas seems to hold on for dear life, threading his fingers through Dean's hair. He's still so careful, so polite, though: he's not guiding Dean's head, just holding on, anchoring himself._ _

__Dean lets Cas's boxers float to the ground, bringing his hands back up to Cas's thighs, then to his hips, thumbs leaning into the crease between leg and groin. Above him, Cas moans and then bites his lip. Dean sucks the head of that thick cock in, tucking his tongue around it, cushioning the sensitive back softly._ _

__"Dean," Cas just about grunts, his fingers tightening slightly. "I want… oh." He gasps when Dean reaches for his balls, rolling them gently. "Bed." He traces the line of Dean's jaw, fingers running over the slight bulge the head of his cock makes in Dean's cheek when Dean lets it slot deeper. "Dean. That feels—I need—bed."_ _

__Dean slides his mouth slowly off Cas with a very intentional soft smack of his lips as he pops off the tip, grinning up at the expression on Cas's face. "Big comfy bed right here. Nothing stopping you," he laughs, feeling just a little bit less shaky and overwhelmed now that he's sitting down. He turns to press his lips to Cas's fingertips, Cas's cock leaving a wet streak against his cheek._ _

__"One thing is," Cas answers, and gives Dean just enough of a gentle nudge that it pushes him back._ _

__Dean's smiling, though, and it feels like he might not ever stop. "What's that?"_ _

__"I'm naked," Cas says, simply, and runs a hand down Dean's shoulder, his elbow, his fingertips, moving to touch his chest. "And you're not."_ _

__"Well, that does seem pretty unsporting of me," Dean agrees as Cas gently, but firmly, pushes Dean further back towards the middle of the mattress. He goes willingly and with a playful bounce. He feels, more than sees, Cas's hands finding their way to his boxers, the elastic oh-so-carefully lifted and a quick kiss placed on the sensitive, leaking head of Dean’s cock, even before the material is eased over it completely._ _

__Dean shudders slightly. "Cheater."_ _

__"Strategist," Cas counters, warm breath ghosting over Dean's skin. The very tip of his tongue follows._ _

__Dean’s boxers are gone before he finishes recovering._ _

__Cas has one knee on the foot of the bed, one hand like a warm brand on Dean's thigh, and he's stopped moving. He's staring up and down Dean's body like he's never seen it before._ _

__Which is crazy, because, as the guy says himself: he _remade_ Dean._ _

__"Admiring your work?" Dean says, licking his lips as the expression on Cas's face goes darker, eyes tracing down the broad line of Dean's shoulders, the curve of his waist. Hungrier, if anything. Shit, Cas is an out-and-out sweetheart—Dean wouldn't have in a billion years thought he'd make faces like that in bed. And it is just..._ _

__Cas's eyes just settle on where Dean's cock is curved up towards his belly button and making it very clear how much _it_ likes being looked at like that, a silky drip already smearing on Dean's stomach. "I can take no credit," he says, hoarsely. To Dean's delight, Cas shivers, and his hand presses a little more firmly into Dean's thigh. "I couldn't have imagined you."_ _

__Dean's mouth goes dry at the admission. "Uh. Ditto," he croaks, because never in a million years could he have imagined someone like Cas. For him._ _

__Cas's smile softens from that sharp hungry line that does something to Dean's insides. He likes this smile too: hell, he can admit it, he likes all of Cas's faces—they each do something slightly different to Dean's heart._ _

__Cas climbs on top of him, straddles one leg, and hooks the thigh he's got his hands on around his waist. Dean's ankle ends up resting behind Cas's knee. Cas eases down, hands on either side of Dean's head, and hovers. Dean runs his hands up Cas's arms, fingers tightening slightly over the muscles at work. He’s a whole long line of incredible teasing warmth, just out of reach—except his dick, which just barely touches Dean's skin where it hangs, heavy and red._ _

__Dean looks down between their bodies, waiting for the contact, waiting for Cas to lower himself down so they can feel it all—skin to skin the whole way down. Even just imagining it makes his mouth dry with want._ _

__Cas doesn't._ _

__Cas just hangs out there, completely still, less space between them than a breath could fill. There's nothing but his cock brushing lightly against the crease of Dean's groin, the tense strength of his hip under Dean's knee, the back of his thigh making a statement against Dean's calf._ _

__"Anyone ever told you you're a tease?" Dean grits out, when pulling at Cas's shoulder does a grand total of diddly-squat. Except for make Dean's cock go just that little bit harder against his belly, because Cas being that strong... well, shit, that really does it for him._ _

__"Just you," Cas answers, proudly. "I prefer it that way."_ _

__It's Cas’s own damned fault, Dean thinks, when Dean sneaks his other hand between their bodies and runs his fingertips up the thick lines of both of their cocks, lying side by side._ _

__Cas shudders all over, but he still lasts a half dozen light, playful strokes before he gives in, or maybe his arms give out—Dean can't tell. Then they're flush together, miles and miles of gorgeous skin pressing Dean into the mattress._ _

__"You have a way of ruining all of my plans, Dean Winchester," Cas growls, capturing him in a rough kiss. For a while they're nothing but lips and bodies with arms and legs working to keep each other as close as possible. When they finally break away, panting, Cas looks down at him, propping himself up on a single elbow. "Have I ever thanked you for that?"_ _

__"Well," Dean says, a little breathlessly, "there was that time I came in my pants. That other time I came in my pants. That _third_ time I came in my boxers." He winks at Cas and kisses his nose. "Either you really like me, or you’ve got something against my clothing, buddy."_ _

__Cas nuzzles in and presses a kiss to Dean's top lip. Then his bottom lip. Then his chin. "I feel like I should remind you that you've made me ejaculate in my underwear just as often." He smiles against Dean's cheek. "Considering that you're the one with more experience between the two of us overall, I'm inclined to think that _you_ enjoy making _me_ lose control rather than the other way around."_ _

__"Hey," Dean objects, because that 'more experience' stuff is a low blow... and Cas knows just as well as Dean does that as far as being with guys? Cas is definitely the one of them with the notches on his bedpost._ _

__Cas waggles his eyebrows, and Dean should tell him not to do that in bed—except goddammit, it's adorable how hard he's trying not to smile. "And considering the way you were staring at my boxers earlier," he says, his lips tight and quivering a little, "I think you find the sight of me... undone, while still in my clothing, as compelling as I find you."_ _

__Someone else, Dean's pretty sure, might've made a wisecrack about how Dean just can't keep control of himself, but nope, not Castiel._ _

__"'Undone,' huh?" Dean asks, his tongue firmly in his cheek. He tightens the leg he's still got hooked around Cas's thigh. "So how's that look like with you naked?"_ _

__Cas pauses his soft, aimless kisses and tilts his head in thought. "Less confining."_ _

__Dean laughs and pulls him down for more kisses because at some point, the kissing became more important than the sex. Oh, that’s not to say that Dean doesn’t want the sex: he really wants the sex. In fact, he's seriously considering asking for something he thought would take him months, if not longer, to feel comfortable asking for._ _

__It might really be their last night on earth, and Dean doesn't want to regret anything. He thinks, maybe… it really did feel so damned good with Cas’s fingers inside him, Cas moving on top of him, and..._ _

__Fuck. Yeah, he’s thinking about it now, for sure._ _

__Which is why it's entirely derailing when Cas, with one hand cupping his cheek, stroking slowly, pulls away and says, "Dean, I would very much like to feel you inside me."_ _

__Dean's head drops back to the pillow, completely short-circuited by _that_ visual. _ _

__He can feel Cas's laughter rumble through their chest. “Dean?” Cas asks, but Dean can almost feel the brightness of his smile._ _

__Oh. Right. Right. Cas wants him, Cas can have him._ _

__As soon as Dean remembers how to make words with his lips._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ami:** I've been told that this is a cliffhanger and I should apologize, but really I just wanna cackle and say "hey, at least they got all their clothes off this time?"
> 
> And now, for for personal safety reasons, I shall be calling WITSEC.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Ami:** Okay folks, here is where we remind you that this chapter begins the equivalent of the SPN season finale. Mind the tags and hold them close. We are not cruel... mostly. We'll get you there in the end.

Cas is waiting for him—or, more specifically, for Dean’s brain to go back online. Right now, all the inside of Dean’s head is doing is making a fun little ‘screech’ noise. 

At first, it’s because, holy fuck, being inside Cas is possibly the single hottest idea he's heard all year. For another, well… Dean frowns. "I thought you didn't enjoy that,” he objects. “I don't want that if you can't enjoy it."

Cas smiles sweetly and shifts down to take Dean's hand in his own. "I said, I couldn’t enjoy it for all of the pretending I had to do." He brings their joined hands up to his lips and kisses Dean's knuckles. "Dean, if this is my last day on Earth, then I want to experience this with you. Finally. Please."

Dean shivers all over, and he couldn't put a finger on what he's feeling if he had a million years to do it. Lust—hell, he's barely dared think about this, since he thought Cas wasn't into it, and the rush of excited _want want want_ is pounding like a pulse in his ears. 

Nervousness—yeah, maybe a little. That deep, shivery, connection between them is tight and tense and shining, though—God, he can feel that everywhere they touch, and he wants to be closer so bad that his joints ache with it.

But Cas's 'if this is my last day on Earth,' for the first time tonight, doesn't just sound like teasing. It doesn't just sound like their little inside joke. 

Because it isn’t one.

His fingers tighten through Cas's, almost too tight. The pressure of it is grounding.

"Do you want to?" Cas asks, and now, for just a heartbeat, he sounds a little unsure.

Goddammit, Dean is not gonna screw this up.

"Yeah, sweetheart," he says, hoarsely. Looks Cas in the eye, so there's no way he can doubt it. "Show me?"

Cas's smile turns warm and relieved. "Here."

Dean blinks at their hands, at where there’s now a full, but compact, plastic bottle wedged between their palms. "Buddy, did you mojo the lube?" he asks, incredulous but laughing.

Cas blinks. "Did _you_ want to get out of the bed to fetch it?"

Dean thinks about it briefly and then nods. "Point conceded."

Cas unwraps their hands and then with one hand, pops the cap open. He makes a gesture with two fingers and waits for Dean to copy it, then lays out a thick trail of lube in the groove between Dean’s middle and index finger. When he recaps the bottle, it’s still one-handed. Dean's gonna ask about that later.

"Like this, for now," Cas says, guiding Dean's fingers downwards and back behind himself. He sprawls forward, over Dean’s chest. "Remember how I started with you? Just go slow. Feel your way. I'll be fine.” He flashes Dean a mischievous smile. “Do you think my being an angel will protect us from our mutual inexperience?” 

Dean snorts, and just like that, he’s not as nervous anymore. And that's how Dean finds himself with a front full of naked Cas, fuck, yeah. Cas sighs indulgently as Dean slowly eases his fingers down between two pert and firm cheeks to press oh-so-gently against soft, crinkly skin.

Cas has his eyes half-closed, his eyelashes shades with the dark of his pupils edged with blue just barely peeking out from under them. He shivers once as Dean spreads the cool gel around and around with two slippery fingers, the tremor of it going down Dean's whole front.

Dean can't see what he's doing, just exploring by touch. It's a little of a weird angle for his hand. But the warm tuck of Cas's ass cheeks around his fingers as Cas flexes and moves on top of him, their cocks bumping every so often, makes beads of sweat break out around Dean's hairline, and Dean doesn't even have a finger in him yet.

But he draws himself another circle and dips to press just with the pad of one finger at where he's almost sure... maybe? Jesus, he can't even imagine it, everything seems so _tight_.

"Mm, yes. Right there." Cas opens his eyes wider and smiles down at him. His breath is coming in little pants. For that matter, so's Dean's. "Now who's a tease?"

Dean’s fingertip slides just barely in, and Cas lets out a satisfied sigh. Cas’s rim is warm around him, and clenching him tight; Dean shivers with the echo of future sensation. Their connection pulses lightly, as if it's happy—excited, even. Dean swallows around a lump in his throat and noses at Cas's face until their lips meet.

He slides his finger a little further in, just enough to create a tiny thrusting movement. Cas's lips lose coordination and he moans, burying his head in that spot between Dean's neck and shoulder. "God, I forgot that could feel so good," he husks, clutching Dean closer to him. His hands flex on Dean’s shoulders.

Dean loses time to the feeling of his finger sliding deeper and deeper into a hot, tight place and he can't quite put the idea that his cock is eventually going to follow out of his mind. In fact, it might be driving him a little crazy. If that doesn't do it, then Cas's uneven breathing and occasional hitch of hips _back_ does.

Cas is mouthing against his skin, sloppy and soft as he pants into Dean's neck, and the little rolls of his hips and the stutter of his breathing is making Dean's cock twitch between their bodies. Jesus, Dean thinks he could do this all day, and he's maybe starting to understand just why Cas seems to like doing it to _him_ so much. His knuckles brush gently against Cas's ass cheeks as he gets as deep as he can go.

"Yes," Cas mumbles. "More, please."

Again with the 'please,' holy fuck. When Dean carefully starts to pull his finger back, Cas's rim tugs and clenches against him like it's trying to keep him in, and yeah, Dean's almost sure he is _never_ gonna fit.

Which, well? Right now he couldn't give a damn. He's not a hundred percent sure how to find exactly what he should be looking for, or what it’s supposed to feel like, but he knows Cas lit him up with just a finger.

Dean's got a goal, now.

It's not like Dean doesn't know vaguely what Cas did. Even without the occasional interest in the whole thing, guys talk. It’s usually pretty ‘phobic, but whatever, he's heard things. So he knows the prostate is there somewhere and that's probably what put stars behind Dean's eyes both those times. He's just not quite clear on the anatomy of it all. Especially from this angle.

Doesn't mean he isn't gonna try his hardest.

He goes back in with two fingers, twisted together to create a thicker, blunt, tip. Dean maybe needs to take a deep breath now and then, because it's almost like he can feel all that slippery heat on his cock when he thinks too hard about it. He pushes in slow, so slow, and Cas just takes it, smooth as anything, easing back against the fingers inside him with his cock dripping all over Dean’s belly.

It's fantastic. Dean curves his fingers, starts feeling out the strong walls holding him in. He knows he accidentally brushes his target once because Cas sucks in a sharp breath and goes silky-tight. Dean waits for him to relax and then he goes back over the same spot, slow and steady until finally—

"Fuck." Cas’s back bows. He bites Dean’s shoulder softly. "Yes. You found it."

Dean grins into Cas's temple, so happy that he thinks he might be glowing a little. "Yeah I did," he says, smugly. Then he whispers, "Made you swear, too, sweetheart."

Cas bites him just that little bit harder, grumbling, but the momentary achy sting of it only makes the warm roll of satisfaction and pleasure in Dean's core coil tighter. And Cas's next moan trembles against the bite mark when Dean curves his fingers gently again.

He's still careful, still going slow—he can tell he doesn't always get the right spot, but he's starting to figure out what it feels like under his fingertips past the fact that everything is tight and slippery and everything his cock aches to get into. But pulling his fingers almost all the way out and tucking them deep again, even when his angle's not quite right, makes Cas's back arch deliciously over him, rubbing them together in the most damned delicious way.

The fact that Cas is all but dripping onto him with every little thrust is just a bonus. Dean really hopes Cas is gonna let him know when to stop, because otherwise, he's just gonna keep going. "Should I..." he asks, because Dean's got big hands, but even he can tell that his two fingers are nowhere near the size of what he's got in his pants.

Cas nods, frantically enough that his chin bumps into Dean's chest. "Yes," he groans, deep and hoarse. "Another, yes."

Dean takes a deep breath and slowly withdraws. Cas makes a noise of complaint that Dean shushes with another kiss to his temple. "Just need to load up again, you wanna do that one-handed trick for me?"

Cas looks at him with a slow blink and it takes a good five seconds before he seems to realize what Dean is asking for. Despite Cas’s shaking hands, though, he manages to once again operate the lube with a single hand and a deft flick of his fingers, without dropping it. (Dean has _got_ to ask how he learned that one day.) Dean holds his fingers out and Cas squeezes another long line of lube onto them. 

Dean thinks he might finally be getting used to the feeling. When he reaches out and down again, it takes him a second to figure the right configuration of three fingers to push back in in a way that seems like it isn’t going to hurt. But when he does, Cas sucks in a deep breath. Dean freezes. "Cas?"

"One second," Cas says, and he breathes out slowly, his entire body relaxing forward and against Dean. Suddenly, his fingers are gliding in like before.

It's so tight he can barely move back and forth, at first; he's not even trying for that spot anymore—not that Cas seems to mind at all, with the way he's panting against Dean's shoulder.

Dean has to relax his other hand from where he's gripping the sheets to the side of him—he didn't even realize he was doing that, goddamn. But when he brings it up and gently rubs up and down Cas's side, he can feel that he's tense, balanced, but not... well, Dean knows a little too well what pain looks like. This isn't it.

"You okay?" he asks, anyway. He means it.

"Mmm," Cas says, in a dark, throaty purr. When Dean peeks sideways, Cas's eyes are all the way closed now. "Yes, very. It's wonderful."

Seriously, only Cas would describe it that way.

Cas is the first one to really start moving this time, even if it's just little delicate rolls of his hips. Dean's not quite sure whether Cas is rubbing his cock against the slick puddle he's left on Dean's belly—oh God, that is so, so fucking hot—or pushing back against the fingers Dean's holding still inside him. It might be minutes later or hours later, but nothing feels quite as _tense_ around his fingers anymore, and the easy glide of them in and out to the second knuckle is making it hard to breathe.

God, Dean really hopes Cas is ready soon. 'Cause if Dean ends up coming all over them both just from _fingering_ him that's gonna be too fucking embarrassing.

Cas's back arches: he's directing Dean's fingers to the right spot, showing him how to please him and that's also something that makes Dean's brain fritz out briefly. Together, they find that place again and Cas, with his eyes closed and lip bitten to near-white, grunts in surprise and then starts rolling his hips in tiny little circles.

With each tight little circle, Dean feels his fingers move a little deeper, gain a little freedom to flex. Thank God.

They're really beyond much of anything other than broken breathing, sloppy kisses and generally uncoordinated movements. So when Cas suddenly laughs, croaky and choked-off but genuine-sounding, Dean blinks in surprise.

"I knew it," Cas gasps, rolling his hips a little more sharply.

"Hmm?" Dean asks, nosing down the side of Cas's face.

Cas stops, then, and lifts his head just enough to catch Dean's eyes. "I'm not incapable of—" he trails off and chuckles wetly. "It was always you, Dean, and you spent so long as a figment of my imagination, I couldn't help but feel…"

He kisses Dean, gently. "But I'm not."

It takes Dean a second to process what Cas means, and when he does, he almost stops moving his fingers in those careful little rocking motions that Cas seems to be really enjoying. 'Cause yeah, Dean probably _is_ kind of a possessive sonofabitch, but it's not the idea of Cas trying out this kind of thing with someone else that bugs him.

It's the idea of Cas, Dean's Cas, looking for intimacy, looking for something that should feel _good_ and close and everything that this is right now. And not getting it. Cas thinking that he would _never_ have it. Cas thinking that maybe there was something wrong with him, something broken.

"Damn right you're not, sweetheart," Dean says, softly, his whole body and both hands still. It's so fucking sappy. For once in Dean's life, he doesn't give a shit. He brings his free hand up and cups Cas's face in it. "You're perfect. For me, anyway."

Cas gives him a look of pure blue-eyed startlement that only lasts a heartbeat before he surges up Dean's body and kisses him like he's trying to lick Dean's soul out.

When Cas pulls away, an eternity later, he looks a little unhinged and a lot at the end of his rope... in a good way, though. "I think I'm ready."

Dean, whose brain has been a little offline since the first finger slid, slick and easy, into Cas's body, is still coming back from that kiss when Cas lays that on him. "Bwuah?" His lips and his tongue seem to be out of sync. "I mean," he clears his throat. "Are you sure?"

Cas smiles and then wiggles slightly on Dean's fingers only to bite his lip in pleasure right after. "Mhhmm. Yes. In all of my years I don't think I've ever been more ready for anything."

When Dean's fingers slide out, the glide of it is so easy in comparison to where they started that Dean shivers all over. Cas shakes a little, too. When he mumbles, "Feels strange to be empty," Dean's cock has just about had it.

They both peek down at the way it all but jumped between their bellies. Cas smiles. Dean would laugh if he weren't feeling so damned nervous.

Dean swallows. "How, uh... do you, umm..."

Goddammit, Dean's always been pretty smooth, but the words are just _not_ coming out right.

Cas rolls off and to the side, and Dean immediately misses the weight of him, the warmth that was all over his front. He's a little sweaty, now, but none of it feels bad. Or at least it won't if he gets Cas's skin back, like, now. Dean wipes his fingers on the sheets and turns to face him, too.

"Oh," Cas murmurs, meeting Dean's eyes. "I thought... it's supposed to be easier, on hands and knees. That’s how I did it before. But..."

Dean licks his lips. "But?"

Cas reaches out, trembling fingers tracing along Dean's cheek. "I'm not sure I can do this if I can't see your face. It would be too much like, um. All those other times…?"

Dean closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Sex with Cas is always intense, but sometimes the emotion, the feelings, they're a lot for Dean on a good day. While he's got the boner to end all boners, it makes it hard to think. On top of all that, Dean's never gonna fuck someone and have it just be about him, it's just not in his nature. Everyone should have a good time or no one has a good time.

Cas looks at him like he's the sun and moon, and the kind of trust he just lays down into Dean's hand is breathtaking. So when Cas tells him that a lifetime of heartbreak isn't enough to stop him from going for what he finally wants, it's a little tough to find much to say in response. Except, of course:

"Whatever you need, Cas."

Cas smiles at him—soft and warm, but with an eagerness to it that does a lot for Dean's nerves. He really does want it. He's not just doing this for Dean, he's doing this for himself, and goddammit, that's amazing.

Cas rolls onto his back and gives Dean a look at him in all that naked glory.

Dean grins, shakily, giving him a long look up and down. There's no mistaking Cas for a woman, no way, no how—not even with one leg bent up the way it is now, the lean curve of his thigh making Dean's mouth water. The sleek lines of muscles and the little scattering of hair, cute brown nipples and the erect cock lying eager as anything on Cas’s belly and curved a little to the left, are really, really doing it for Dean. God, that's a damned vision. "Never gonna get used to the sight of you naked, sweetheart."

"Hopefully you will," Cas answers, raising an eyebrow. He's smiling, though. “You’re the one who’s been accusing me of a vendetta against your clothing, I have to redeem myself somehow.” 

"Okay, buddy, I don't even know what that means," Dean grumbles. But he's eagerly crawling on top of Cas and settling down on top of him. Cas rearranges his legs, and Dean's breath comes a little fast at the feel of Cas's thighs pressing to either side of his waist, his hips. "Like this?"

Cas's eyes are blown, and he's starting to pant a little, too, looking into Dean's eyes like they're a lifeline. "Yes," he agrees. "A pillow under my hips, maybe, but... like this."

Dean reaches for one of the pillows by Cas's head. He folds it in half, because it's kind of a shitty motel pillow, and shoves it under Cas's hips as he lifts to make room for it. That's almost a mistake because it just sort of rubs them together in a very pleasant and distracting way.

When they settle back down, Cas presses the bottle of lube into Dean's hand and he blinks at it, a little confused at first, before he remembers. Right. His dick. Which is gonna fuck Cas. Fuck, he's really ready to be doing that right this second. He squeezes some directly on, hoping the initial coolness of the gel will calm him down a bit. It does, but not a whole lot. He spreads it with a shaking hand, trying not to get too into it.

Below him, Cas is waiting more patiently than Dean might ever be able to. He has his left hand gripping Dean’s right forearm, which is bracing Dean a few inches away from Cas. He’s just waiting, grounding.

Cas's leg nudges him and Dean takes a deep breath, bracing his cock with one hand as he leans in... and finds, as the head of his cock pokes into Cas’s balls, that every instinct is just slightly off.

"A little lower," Cas growls, with only a hint of impatience.

Dean blinks, then huffs out a shaky laugh. "Dammit," he mutters.

Cas doesn't look nervous, though. He arches an eyebrow in that little sassy-as-fuck 'well?' expression he's gotten so good at, and smiles. "Just go slow," he says. He lets out a low, pleased noise as Dean eases a little lower, and presses. He doesn't think he's there, he's just sort of slipping back and forth against that warm stretch of Cas’s perineum, but they know that feels good. "A little, little furth—ah."

Dean can feel the difference, but he's definitely getting the nervous, shaky, eager 'oh shit, there's no damned way this is going to work' feeling as he presses his cock where his fingers were. He's not even in and he knows how tight this is gonna be—he's going to have to brace his cock with his hand to even have a hope of getting in there.

" _Please_ , Dean!" Cas's legs shift impatiently around him.

And that 'please' is going to get him every single damned time. Dean takes a deep breath, balances over Cas with his free hand, and starts to press in.

Beneath him, Cas stills, takes a deep breath and then relaxes, just like with the three fingers, and Dean finds just enough give in the muscles to move. Barely.

"Keep going," Cas growls.

Dean nods frantically, biting his lip. He can't concentrate on anything but the almost-too-tight feel of Cas constricting around the head of his cock and the warm, silken hot slide of the lube coating them both. He keeps going, so, so slow and careful until Cas arches just slightly, gasping and Dean feels the whole head of his dick get swallowed up in Cas.

He pauses, breathing heavily. He needs a minute. Holy fuck.

"Just a... just a... stay there. Just like that," Cas whispers, his breath coming in shallow, shaky gasps, the rest of him taut and still. His body flexes around Dean's cock in tiny little flickers that don't feel like any fucking thing that Dean's ever experienced in his whole life—hot and silky in just the right way. The grip just behind the head of Dean's cock is unreal, and Dean can't wait to feel it all along his whole length.

Eventually.

Because if he moves right now, Dean's gonna come, and he is not gonna disappoint Cas that way.

He's not sure how to bend down and kiss him, no matter how much he wants to, without pushing further in, but watching Cas sex-flushed, reaching down to gently fist his own half-hard cock, fingers wrapping loosely around himself and just sort of petting... that doesn't help Dean’s control. That definitely doesn't help.

"Oh, Christ," Dean whispers. Has he seen Cas do that before? He's got no idea. Shit, that's unbelievably hot. "That how you like to be touched?"

Cas licks his lips and nods, a barely-there movement of chin and cheeks. "S-sometimes. When I need something but don't want to get too much."

Dean stares at Cas’s fingers, long and tapered, moving softly and slowly over the wet head and ruddy red shaft. "Noted."

Slowly, Dean can feel some of the muscles beneath and around him soften and relax. When the thigh draped onto Dean’s hip feels less like marble, Dean lets out a long slow breath he didn’t realize he'd been mostly holding. "Better?" he asks.

"Mm," Cas says. He closes his eyes and takes a deeper inhale than the little sips he's been taking, and breathes out. "Yes. Yes, that's... I'm fine." He cracks open one eye as Dean tenses. One corner of Cas's mouth curves upwards, looking genuinely amused. "Really fine, not the Winchester definition thereof."

It's really weird to be glaring at Cas when Dean's dick is up his ass and his brain's still sparking and fritzing with how hot this all is, how _good_ it feels. But Dean manages it.

Cas's smile widens to a full smile, and, weirdly, he relaxes just a little bit more.

"Seriously," Dean says, frowning. "Is this... I mean, does this even feel good for you?" He didn’t miss that Cas didn’t keep it all the way up, though he doesn’t seem to be having that problem now.

Cas licks his lips, but he nods. "It's... it's very intense," he admits. "But I like this. I like.... I like knowing it's you in me."

Something in Dean's chest tightens and he knows that Cas is commenting from experience, not just fantasy. Dean wants to rub that memory out—not because it was someone other than him, but because of how he imagines it made Cas feel. He can see it: Cas just letting it happen, and then the shattering disappointment of the entire experience and with no one he could share it with. It hurts Dean to think about, but it’s also the final wedge that pries Dean away from a hair-trigger orgasm. So there's that.

"Read for more?" he asks, not sure if he actually is, himself, but willing to give it a good try anyway.

Cas nods. "Please."

One day, that isn't going to be a turn-on, but not today. Dean lets the hand that was bracing his cock rest against the leg Cas has wrapped around him. When he starts to push inwards, the angle feels weird, at first, and he realizes that the thrust has a different arc than he's used to.

He can work with that. A small adjustment, and he can finally slide in slow and steady. Heat engulfs him. It feels like forever, but really, he's barely half in and Cas gasps and shudders. A brief tightening around him makes Dean's toes curl.

"Keep going!" Cas is frantic, his free hand clutching the fabric of the sheets to one side of him.

So Dean goes.

Cas's heel thumps against the back of Dean’s thigh like he's trying to pull him in, and Dean follows the motion of it—slow and steady, and Jesus fucking Christ. Cas lifts into him at the last little go of it, and Dean freezes, but under him, Cas lets out a low, shaky little moan. "Dean," he says, like he's anchoring himself.

He's all the way in. Cas's full, firm ass is pressed into his groin, and Dean's not sure who's wrapping around who right now, but it's good. It's all good. God.

Cas isn't so still under him anymore: he's shifting in jerky little arcs of his hips from side to side like he's feeling it all out. Some of the tension has faded from the line of his jaw, he's lifted his hand away from the curve of his cock to rest it on Dean’s shoulder, and if anything he looks so... well...

Pleased.

Dean takes a deep breath, in and out. Okay. Okay, yeah. Holy fuck. This feels amazing.

When he meets Cas's eyes and Cas nods, the slow drag of muscle along him as Dean carefully starts to pull out? That's even better.

There's a half dozen or so slow, shaky thrusts where Dean can finally begin to concentrate on just the feelings surrounding his cock. The tight pull of muscle starts giving way to slick, slightly elastic warmth. Cas's low groan of pleasure rumbles through his chest with every deep, complete stroke.

Dean bottoms out again and Cas pulls him down just a little further, a little more evidence that Dean’s doing right by him. His muscles are all pliant now, moving like liquid instead of almost-rusty gears. It puts Dean in kissing distance for the first time since they got into this position.

He captures Cas's lips. It's sloppy and wetter than he meant, but perfect for all that it isn't. Dean keeps his hips grinding in tiny little circles and Cas makes tiny high-pitched whines into Dean's mouth, but fuck if that sound doesn't complete some kind of circuit in Dean's brain.

The nervousness is mostly gone now, burned away by the perfect hitch of Cas's chest and the incomparable grip of Cas's body.

Dean finds himself smiling against Cas's lips when he finally draws back for air and resettles them, his elbows balanced over Cas's shoulders. His head has stopped spinning for long enough that he's really feeling the way Cas's cock is pressed between their bodies. One of Cas's hands is on his shoulder, and the other has left off clutching the bedsheets and is on Dean’s hip now.

Cas is just sort of guiding Dean's thrusts with that hand, with a growing impatience that's really doing it for Dean—almost as much as the way his ass is flexing and clenching around Dean's cock, now in a way that feels almost kind of...

Dean bottoms out and Cas squeezes, the pull of it tighter than a fist as Dean tries to draw back, and holy crap. Sweat beads on Dean’s forehead. Yes, yes, that was definitely intentional.

"Cas," he groans, and drops their foreheads together again. "Sweetheart, I'm not gonna last if you're gonna do that." And Dean definitely wants this to last.

Cas's only answer to that is to smile at him with something that looks like triumph. "Harder, please," he demands.

Dean nuzzles their lips together and chuckles lightly before he lifts a little off him. Okay then. He pulls out just a hair faster and then bottoms out without quite so much care. It's not quite enough to slap their skin together, but it's definitely a more familiar pace to Dean.

He shifts his knees a little, because he needs the extra leverage to pick up speed. Dean is still careful—he can't help it; despite being looser than he was, Cas’s body is still so tight, and angel or not, Dean will _not_ hurt him.

The next time he bottoms out, it's just this side of controlled, but the angle is somehow better. Cas sucks in a chest full of shocked air. Dean pauses and Cas's leg and hand tighten on him.

"Just like that," Cas grinds out, eyes squeezed shut.

Okay, yeah, that's a reaction Dean definitely likes. When he pulls back and snaps in with the same curve, Cas twists under him and groans, loudly enough that he turns his face to the side and bares the line of his neck. He almost looks embarrassed of the noise he just made, and fuck no, Dean's not having that.

Dean leans in just enough to nip just under Cas's ear. "Don't hide, c'mon," he says, "Right here, Cas." They can't be molded together and still have the right leverage, not anymore. But Dean almost doesn't need that, not with how Cas's hands and their bodies are joining them together, not with how Cas is starting to look a little desperate and more than a little eager.

Cas turns his face back to look at him, and murmurs, "I see you," with his eyes hooded and happy. He bites down on his lower lip and his eyelashes flutter when Dean's next thrust takes him in. "Dean, I want... I want..."

Dean needs to see that look a few dozen more times. He draws out and presses in again and Cas arches against him perfectly.

"Anything," Dean whispers into his neck, answering the question Cas didn't really ask. "Everything." When he glances back up, Cas's eyes are wet, but his smile is huge and made of sunshine.

The next thrust knocks a tear loose but Cas closes his eyes and arches again. "Dean." He groans again. "Just a little…" one more thrust "…faster?"

Dean's sweating; his arms are trembling, and truthfully, he doesn't have much more in him. Cas is the best thing he's ever felt and there's so much going on that he's having trouble keeping that final surge of pleasure at bay.

So it pretty much sparks out the edges of Dean's vision when he does pull just that little bit more speed, and this time their bodies are moving together hard enough that there's the soft wet slap of it, the reverb of it up Cas's spread thighs. Cas spreads them further, making more room for Dean in the cradle of his hips, and that sort of shifts their balance just _enough_.

"Sweetheart, shit, are you—" Dean asks, because he's not gonna ruin this for Cas, he is _not_ , but pleasure is white-hot up the line of his back and between his legs and he's gonna lose coordination any second now.

Cas lets go of where he was gripping Dean's hip, but that just tightens the hand he has on Dean's shoulder. His left shoulder, right next to Dean’s neck. It's sliding a little sideways. Oh shit, no, Cas wouldn't dare—

He doesn't. But he does put a hand between them, and Dean feels the soft clench of Cas's fingers closing around his own cock, sees his eyes rolling up as his mouth falls open.

Dean wants to watch, to see Cas's hand run shaky over his own cock, the last of his control shattered. He also wants to help, to wrap his fingers on top of Cas's and pull rough and fast until he pops.

But the best Dean can do right now is to keep the pace up as long as possible, and that's not exactly a door prize. Fuck, he can feel the orgasm building, the tingling of it starting in his toes and the tips of his fingers, and it's gonna be a doozy. First though, Cas, whose mouth is open in a near soundless 'oh,' neck muscles corded and tight. His hand pumps in time with the quiet 'slap slap' of their hips.

He looks gorgeous, flushed skin and bitten lips and pleasure written into every cell of his body.

Dean holds on even as his body starts to tighten in that old familiar way. "Cas? How close are you?" It's hard to even get the words out.

Cas answers with a long, drawn-out moan and a shudder that Dean feels all the way down his spine.

Close, then.

Cas twists under him when one of Dean's thrusts go a little ragged, a little shaky, trying to ward off the way in the next few moments he's either gonna have to stop moving or this is going to be over sooner than he wants. But Dean's angel doesn't stop—one of his knees pulls high enough to thump gently against the side of Dean's ribs, and he throws his head back. He arches so hard under Dean that for a second Dean thinks Cas might buck him off or out.

But Dean doesn't stop moving.

He feels Cas coming before he even realizes it's gonna happen—even before Cas's hand goes still around himself, wedged between them. Even before the first hot spurt decorates Cas's belly and his own. Because _holy fuck_ Cas's orgasm seems to start from little jittery spasms all the way _inside_ him, where his body is welcoming Dean in and in and in.

If Dean really thought about it—he has—he thought Cas would be kind of quiet—and he is. Normally.

This isn't 'normally.' The noise Cas makes is part yell, part sob, deep and shaky—but there's no mistaking any part of it for anything but pleasure.

Cas's body tightens around him so fucking sweetly, and Dean has just enough time to lock his arms before the tide pulls him under. He doesn't so much thrust but grind, pushing in as deep as he can go, two, maybe, three times. And he's done, coming so hard he can't tell where one spurt ends and the next begins.

He's wracked with shivers and slow shudders, Cas pressing soft kisses into the nearest bit of skin he can reach. Even those feel amazing, like a little extra spark of pleasure. Dean can't control the way he’s moving, can't even relax until he comes down somewhat from the high of it—and fuck if that isn't the best high he's ever had.

When Dean comes back to himself, they're still joined. He's not sure when he pressed his body down against Cas's—or maybe collapsed is a better word. But they're chest to chest, cheek to cheek. Cas's legs are relaxed and splayed around his hips, and he took his hand out from between them. Dean's never thought too hard about the perks of having sex with someone who's just about his same height, but this, this is really nice.

There's slippery wet between them, but right now, Dean doesn't mind. He's too busy panting, and remembering to breathe, and maybe function, because he's pretty sure he blacked out for a second.

(He's so blissed-out still that he’s not entirely sure he'd notice if the roof fell on his head, actually.)

Then Cas sort of flutters around him again, murmuring, " _Mmmm_ ," into Dean's ear, and he realizes with a jolt of what feels a whole lot like lust that Cas isn't quite done yet, _fuck_.

He ducks his head into Cas's neck and groans.

Cas laughs, bright and carefree, the movement sparking another gentle spasm around Dean’s cock. Dean twitches, ‘cause that’s just a little too much, but he’s more than happy to stay inside Cas until he's too soft to handle it. He kisses the damp, salty skin under his lips and Cas turns his head and catches his mouth in a slow, delicate thing that's full of emotion. Dean breaths into it, one shaky hand lifting to cup Cas’s face.

They rest their foreheads together, while Dean enjoys feeling the tiny little aftershocks running through Cas's body. Finally, he slides out from inside Cas with a shiver of his hips. He wiggles to his side, pulling Cas with him, not quite ready to let go.

Cas rolls with him, about as boneless as Dean's ever seen him, and sort of flops onto Dean's chest and shoulders with a soft 'whumph' that Dean's almost sure isn't even exaggerated.

Which, well, considering that it took most of Dean's strength to even get onto his back, because his head is swimming and his legs feel like noodles, he sort of gets the feeling. But Dean's not an angel, fallen or not. He lets himself feel that little curl of pride to go along with the, well, lack of bones.

Cas tucks into his neck and his body like he can't bear to separate yet either, sliding an arm over Dean's flank and his knee and thigh over Dean’s hips His fingers cup the curve of Dean's back muscles.

Then Dean feels Cas's eyelashes flutter against his shoulder, and Cas murmurs, "Oh. Hm." Then, " _Oh._."

He sounds a little startled. Dean wrenches open eyelids he didn't even realize that he'd closed. "Cas?" he says.

Cas's chest shivers in a tiny little laugh. "I'm not sure you want to know," he says, and holy fuck, his voice sounds _wrecked_. "But, ah, I forgot that condoms are used for more than STI protection. It’s… very strange. But everything feels very good right now."

"Everything?" Dean can't help but ask. He's still got only one eye barely open. His entire body is pliant and heavy, like there's weights attached to his extremities.

Cas wiggles again, then shivers, hand on Dean's ribs tightening briefly. "Yes," Cas rumbles. "Just one thing to fix." He hums briefly and Dean feels the telltale disappearance of drying come off his stomach. He'd object more, but Cas leaves everything else: sweat, spit, a little stickiness. It doesn't take away from the experience, it just means they don't have to awkwardly clean up, with Dean’s limbs like a newborn foal's. Or accidentally fall asleep and glue themselves together.

Dean slides a hand up the arm Cas has around his ribs, running his fingers up and down Cas’s still-cooling skin. Cas actually giggles a little with his next shiver, and Dean understands the impulse. He might actually be a bit giddy and it's not just the lack of oxygen to his brain from that neverending orgasm.

He hooks a hand behind Cas's bent knee and pulls gently to get him a little further on top of Dean. Dean likes the feeling of a boneless, fucked-out Cas curled up against him, and Cas seems more than happy to pull in even tighter.

He's about to close the one eye that he's got open—because it's taking a completely stupid amount of energy to keep it that way—and just let his body fall into dreamland when he realizes that all the lights are still on. (Well, yeah, they're on: Dean's never understood what's all that much fun about having sex in the dark. If his partner's hot enough to want to sleep with, Dean's gonna want to _see_ them.)

Then he blinks. Then grins. Huh. Okay, it might be a stupid grin, but Dean's pretty sure all his brain cells shorted, anyway. He can't be blamed for being stupid.

"Cas?" he murmurs.

The knee at his hip tightens just a little. Cas doesn't quite lift his head, though, so his next words are mumbled into Dean's chest, and Dean can't quite understand them. Cas squirms closer. Yeah, there's gonna be no guard duty angel tonight if Dean has anything to say about it.

"So... not that great, then?" he teases. "'Cause you did not short out a single light bulb. Should I try harder next time?"

Cas goes still, and lifts his head off Dean's chest.

The look Cas is giving him is about as keen an angelic stare as Dean's seen out of him in months. With the little curl of a smile winking around the corners of his mouth, though, and his lips swollen, kiss-bitten, that look is all Dean's to enjoy. 

"Dean Winchester," Cas says, very deliberately, "Are you fishing for compliments?"

"Mostly just curious," Dean comments, letting his eyes close because he's only got enough energy to talk or see, not both.

Cas dips away briefly and Dean's arms ache to pull him back, but before he can finish processing, Cas returns, flopping arms and legs around Dean again along with the floating warmth of a blanket. Dean peeks out again: Cas grabbed the free side of the blanket on the king-sized bed, and folded it over them. Good call. Their cooling sweat was starting to reach the point of no return.

Cas kisses his shoulder sloppily before burying his face back into it. "Integrating human thoughts and feelings into grace can be a little unstable. After the first time, it seemed prudent to get that particular reaction under control as quickly as possible."

Dean tips his chin down and buries his nose in Cas's sweaty hair. "Not enough room in the budget for extra light bulbs?"

Cas bites him gently. "Nope, just plans for lots of sex."

Dean's whole chest quakes as he barks out a laugh.

"You aren't allowed to laugh," Cas says, crossly, into his shoulder, but Dean can feel the quiver of his lips, too. "It was _extremely_ good the first time, and I was looking forward to more!"

This time, there's no stopping the wave of chuckles—okay, okay, probably giggles—that sweep over them both—curled up together so close it'd take work to get paper in between them. Dean presses kisses around Cas's hairline, and breaths him in, shifting the blanket around both their shoulders. He doesn't even object when Cas flicks his fingers and the lights go off.

As if he can hear what Dean's thinking, Cas murmurs, "Dean, my batteries, as you call them, could not possibly get any more charged. I promise."

Dean believes him; he can almost feel the not-quite-electricity coming off Cas's skin. But he can feel Cas's contentment more, and he dips his chin for just one last kiss before he knows sleep's going to have him.

They've got this. They've so got this.

And there's no fucking way Dean's giving it up.

Dean sleeps longer and harder than he has in a long time. He wakes up to find Cas hasn't moved at all, and is in fact still a little asleep. Pride swells inside him briefly, because goddamn he is good.

"Don't get smug," Cas mutters from his shoulder, and flicks him.

They don't stay in bed long, though. It's too tempting to lose themselves into something they don't have the spare time or energy for.

They shower (well, Dean showers) and get dressed and pack up the room in relative silence. Cas has a hot breakfast waiting for Dean when he gets out of the bathroom. The quiet isn't strained, but there's just nothing that needs to be said out loud just yet.

Despite the late hour they woke up, and the slow and careful prep work they put into getting ready, there's still a few hours to kill before go time. They spend it in Baby’s front seat. Clothing _on_. Just talking.

They hold hands, fingers to fingers. They don't talk about the future.

Dean talks about Sam—about how he was just the funniest, nerdiest, smartest little kid. He talks about growing up in one motel room after another. He tells Cas how he learned which diners have the best pie, and how to charm waitresses. He talks about how much he loves shooting pool—and he does, though it's even better when he's got an asshole who needs taking down. He talks about how it felt, knowing that his dad gave up his life for him.

As the shadows stretch longer, and Cas's blue eyes make him whole, Dean talks, very softly, about his mom. About sandwiches with crusts cut off. About lullabies whose lyrics he can only half-remember.

He wonders what his mom would think of the angel that the universe ended up giving Dean, after all.

It's only later that Dean realizes what he's doing: these are memories that no one but Dean has, and he wants to make sure someone carries them on if he doesn't make it.

As the sun begins to set, they drift closer together, words getting more and more hushed. It's not like the sunset of the night before, which felt new and promising. This one is a hunter's sunset, but it's the first one that's ever put this sort of pit in his stomach.

At one point, Cas's eyes focus on something that’s not visible through the windshield. "It's started," he says in a low voice. "Fifteen demons have just entered the convent. More are coming."

Dean squeezes his hand. "You sure your warding will hold?" If they catch wind of Cas too early, this plan is going to go sideways real fast.

Cas nods, smiling sadly. "We two are so entwined now; hiding an angelic presence within that isn't difficult at all. The hex bags from Bobby are more than enough, on top of my own personal warding."

Dean's phone beeps—just once. There's a message from Sam, but it's blank. Cas lets go of his hand.

"Showtime," Dean says, and draws his angel blade.

Cas stalks by his side as they slip into the convent. There's no way to move all that quietly, not with the floor being as creaky as it is, and anything that might soften the sound of their boots has long since rotted away. But that doesn't matter; that's not the plan. It's not long before they come upon the first few demons standing guard.

He and Cas move as one, shoulder to shoulder. Cas's blade whistles, but the song of it ends in a thick, meaty thunk and a scream that hurts Dean's ears. Or it would, if he weren't busy dealing with his own little friend.

They've never really fought side by side like this, two of them against a horde. Dean briefly thinks that this might be what Cas was like in Hell, coming to get him. He doesn't have the time to think about it beyond that because there were fifteen or so demons to start, and even though he and Cas tore through them while they were still surprised, there are still about eight left to go.

Dean punches one demon who won't wait his turn, and he enjoys the shocked look on its face as it actually stumbles to the floor. Fuck if that ring isn't the best gift anyone's ever given him.

They fight, synchronized in a way even he and Sammy never really reached, until the open doors to the main abbey are in sight. Dean can see them, fuck, he can see people in there—and one of them’s his brother. He doesn’t know how relief was going to jelly his knees at seeing him again. He’s okay. He’s alive, he’s okay— 

That's when Ruby, the bitch, looks right at Dean, and the doors slam shut.

"Mother." Stab. "Fucking." Stab. "Demons."

The last of the demons on their side of the door screams its way into... well, wherever the fuck it is that demons go when they die. The floor is slippery with blood, but none of it is theirs. Dean's got a few bruises, and he might be carrying himself like something hurts—it does—but that's not gonna keep him from his little brother. Nothing's gonna keep him from Sam.

Dean rears back and throws his shoulder against the closed door.

It doesn't budge. It doesn't even shudder.

Ouch. Fucking _ouch _.__

__Dean steps back and bares his teeth, taking two steps back to get better leverage before he charges. He almost flinches when a hand grabs hard at his right shoulder, but he knows who it is even before his fingers tenses on the knife in his hand._ _

__"Allow me," Cas says, seriously. "I have grace enough for this."_ _

__Dean steps back without a word. He takes the chance to prod gently at his aching side. Just a bruise. Probably. For now._ _

__Cas steps up to the heavy doors, squinting carefully at the edges, and then carefully runs his fingers down the wood carvings. He seems to be searching for something, his eyes roaming the ancient surface, orderly and efficient. "As we suspected, absolutely no angel warding."_ _

__He puts his hand on the seam between the two doors and closes his eyes. Dean sees the pulsing in a white light, corner-of-his-eye sort of way before it really makes it into the spectrum of human vision. The door starts to vibrate from where Cas's hands are pressing against the wood._ _

__"You should look away, there may be splinters," Cas says and doesn't even check if Dean’s planning to follow his instructions._ _

__He has. Splinters in the eyeball sound like a dumb way to lose the Apocalypse._ _

__The boom when the enormous doors blow in with a spray of wood shakes the structure of the whole convent_ _

__Dean is moving in and through even before the pieces have finished hitting the ground. He takes in the scene around him with the flashfire of attention that always seems to take over at times like this._ _

__There are two meat-suits—now pincushioned meatsuits, with pieces of wood up to the size of Dean's fist sticking out of their bodies—picking themselves up off the opposite wall. Four more bodies are sprawled on the ground, limp in a way that Dean's not sure he understands and is definitely not sure he likes._ _

__In the middle—Sammy. Sammy, still standing. He has his back to them, and has one hand raised. It's like he hasn't even noticed that the door exploded behind him. There are pieces of wood scattered around his feet in a ring, but none of them have touched them. All of his attention is for the fragile-looking blond girl leaning limp against the altar._ _

__Dean doesn’t recognize her. She’s bleeding out of the corner of her mouth. Her eyes are wide and insane, though, stretched too big for her face, and _that’s_ familiar._ _

__Just behind Sam’s shoulder, Ruby smiles and smiles and smiles. She's still smiling when she screams, her voice a panic that doesn’t match the expression on her face at all, "What are you waiting for?! Now, Sam! Kill her! Now!"_ _

__Oh, no fucking _way_._ _

__They haven't rehearsed it, but they've planned it. This is where shit's gonna get sticky. Both he and Cas move together—not as one, but like two perfectly synchronized gears._ _

__Dean hits Sam high, knocking him back, his arm down. Sam's eyes are dazed and blood is dripping down his nose, splitting on his lips. One of his eyes is black from pupil all the way to eyelashes._ _

__Cas whirls in between in a rush of coat, and puts himself between them and the most badass demon that Hell's ever spat out. "Go, Dean!" he yells, his voice dark and harsh as he raises his angel blade. Wisps of silvery light spark around his irises. "Take Sam. Go!"_ _

__Dean's heart nearly jumps out of his chest as he turns away and lets Cas do his thing. It has to look like they don't want her to follow, and it has to look good. God, he hates this. He hates this, but it’s got to happen._ _

__Behind him, Lilith cackles like a madwoman. In front of them, Ruby is yelling at Sam, “I told you! I told you Dean was going to ruin this—finish it, Sam! Finish it—”_ _

__But Sam doesn’t move, even with Dean yanking at his arm. Sam is blinking slow, drugged-out blinks, and Dean's heart breaks just a little bit._ _

__“He doesn’t understand, and he’ll never understand!” Ruby screeches. “You have to, Sam, you’re the only one—”_ _

__Behind Dean, something crashes, and Cas groans. But the next noise is the unmistakable whistling slash of an angel blade, and Lilith cries out._ _

__“Shut the hell _up!_ ” Dean yells, yanking at Sam’s arm. “Snap out of it, Sammy!” What the hell is the matter with him? _ _

__That gets Ruby’s attention, though. She literally pauses whatever fake scene she's concocted in her head, and squints at Dean. "What the hell _are_ you?" she asks, looking—for just a second—curious. But then she’s back, this time with more interesting ammo._ _

__"Can't you see it Sam?" she pleads with him. "Dean’s changed. Different. Just like you, only it's somehow okay for him. But he’s wrong. You know he’s wrong. He’s always been wrong—"_ _

__"Sammy!" Dean cuts in front of her. It makes him flinch to meet Sam’s eyes, with one of them swimming dark like that. "We gotta get out of here. Come on! Look at what she's done to you!"_ _

__That gets Sam's attention. For the first time, he actually looks back at Dean._ _

__Sam says, "She hasn't done anything to me," in a slow, lullaby tune. "I did this. I did this." He raises a hand and looks at it._ _

__Fuck, fuck. Sam knows what the plan is—hell, he came up with the plan with them, side by side—but they didn't actually foresee him being too fucked-up to execute it. Dean didn't think this was actually gonna turn into a real rescue._ _

__He grabs Sam by the arm and starts dragging him backwards. This isn’t easy even when Sam _isn’t_ hopped up on demon blood. "Sam, we gotta go, we gotta go now," he hisses._ _

__"I can see it," Sam says, looking at him with his gaze distant. He’s not struggling, but he's not walking, either. Dean's dragging dead weight. His feet skid in the splinters. "That light. That's not you, Dean."_ _

__Ruby hisses, "It's not. It's not, he's Heaven's little bitch now, and—"_ _

__This is taking too long. Behind them, Cas screams, and Dean's heart splinters at the edges a little more._ _

__Dean clenches his jaw. "We're hiding from Heaven, same as these demons." He feels it, the injury Lilith deals to Cas. It's fire and pain all down his side. His jaw locks, trying to avoid crying out. "But you know what's interesting?" Dean finally bites out. "No angel warding on this whole building! Nada! Not a single speck of Enochian! Not a sigil anywhere."_ _

__Sam slow-blinks again. "I, uh… wait…" He shakes his head. Dean can see white appearing around the edge of his left eye again._ _

__Dean squeezes Sam's arm, hard enough to hurt. "Think about it, Sammy!" If nothing else, Sam’s always had his brain to fall back on. Always._ _

__"That...that doesn't—" and Sam is starting to move, finally, with Dean's urging, towards the door. “The _plan,_ ” he breathes, and yes. Fuck, yes. That’s Dean’s brother, right there—_ _

__Too late._ _

__This time, the hit to Dean’s side is real and it's from Ruby. It’s not a knife, but he feels his rib crack; skin splits from the force of it. "No!" she screams, and as Dean doubles, over he wonders how she'll convince Sam that his death was necessary._ _

__He crashes to one knee, and feels the heat of it before he presses a hand to his side and feels the trickle of blood. But Dean shoves back to his feet, unsteady, and fumbles for his angel blade. His hand has just closed around it when Ruby's fist slams into his face, too strong for someone her size. His head snaps back._ _

__Dean doesn't crumple. But it's close: dark swims at the very edges of his vision before it clears. And clears._ _

__And Sam is standing behind Ruby, one hand outstretched in a claw. He hasn't got a finger on her, but his lips are twisted in a snarl. "Don't touch my brother," he says, in a voice too deep and dark for Dean's little Sammy._ _

__But his eyes aren't fuzzy and black, anymore. They're both hazel, and they're both Sam's._ _

__"Sacrifices!" Ruby howls, struggling, but Sam's got her. "Sam, he's trying to stop us, he's trying to keep you from killing Lilith—you've got to, you—"_ _

__Dean kicks her. And he doesn't know if it's how mad he is, how scared he is, or maybe just that tiny little bit of angel he's got to him now, but Ruby ricochets off a pew like the bouncer in a pinball machine._ _

__Dean's got Sam around the neck now, like they originally planned, but this time, Sam's not fighting him. Or he is, he's struggling, but each little motion is pushing them further _towards_ the door, not away from it. Can’t let Lilith know they’re on to her. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet—_ _

__"Cas!" Dean yells. "Cas, I got 'im, let's move!"_ _

__Cas doesn't answer and Dean can't take the time to look back. The pain is unbelievable, but Dean’s used to fighting through pain: he knows Cas is still alive, can feel that warm pulse of connection under all that fear and adrenaline. That's going to have to be enough for now._ _

__He wrestles his brother out the door and out the side corridor he and Cas scoped out previously. Even with Sam only half-faking his struggle, he's got enough height and weight on Dean that it's actually a real effort to drag him out. The first crisp, clean brush of outdoor air into his lungs, something that finally doesn't smell so heavily of sulfur that it clogs his nose, shoots a spark of elation right through Dean._ _

__They're doing it. They're really doing this. Fuck, they made it through part one of the—_ _

__Sam hangs in the air, jarring to a sudden stop, and Dean falls away from him, the interruption wrenching free his hold. Dean twists back once he’s caught himself from tripping to the ground._ _

__Sam’s standing right inside the devil's trap Dean and Cas drew on the cement, hastily, right before their big entrance._ _

__Dean stares, horrified. In the background of his mind, he can hear fighting; he can feel Cas taking injuries, one after another, like sharp scrapes across the inside of his soul. The fear of all of it tries to strangle him._ _

__Dean's had nightmares like this. For all he knows, everything really did go to shit sometime between yesterday and today. For all he knows, there really is a demon sitting inside his brother, not just bad choices and some tainted blood._ _

__For all he knows, Sammy really did betray them, and—_ _

__"Dean," Sam chokes, looking down at his hands like he can't believe this is happening any more than Dean does. When he looks back up, his face is twisted with realization. "No. Oh, no. I didn't know—"_ _

__Yeah, Dean can believe it. And, well, fuck that._ _

__Dean's going to choose to believe in his brother every time. Every damned time._ _

__Dean runs back and jolts to his knees, scraping at the paint circle with the tip of his angel blade. The cement screeches as it gives. He hears the pop in his ears before he feels the devil trap releasing Sam, stumbling. And it is Sam, definitely, his face white with horror at what he's become._ _

__Something's roaring inside the convent, something female and terrible. Something stabs just to the left of his midline, right into his chest, but with a jarring stop like it glanced off Dean’s ribs. The scrape of pain is so acute it steals his breath. Dean expects to look down and see blood dripping from it, but his clothes are dry. _Cas. Cas... Cas—__ _

__But Sam's his mission, now. Sam's his—_ _

___Cas._ _ _

__Dean chokes, "C'mon, bitch, _move_ ," and yanks Sam out with him._ _

__He gets Sam out of the way just in time for Ruby to come barreling out of the doorway and towards them. Dean’s blood is still red on her fingers. Without the trap to hold her, she's a wild card Dean isn't looking forward to dealing with. But Sam snags her first, by the arms, from behind, wrestling her to a stop._ _

__She snarls, and her expression is full of triumph and rage. "Killing me won't stop Lilith!" she hurls at both of them. Sam grips her tighter._ _

__Dean flips his angel blade into the right direction. "I don't care."_ _

__He stabs._ _

__The roar of the demon that’s plagued them since before Dean knew they were really going to stop the end of the world, the bitch who got Dean’s little brother down the wrong path, trails off into a thin, high, shocked scream. And it’s done. It’s done._ _

__He should find it satisfying. If nothing else, they did this. Dean looks up and meets Sam’s eyes, his brother’s grim, set, tired face. But before Ruby’s dying orange flashes finish, a near-blinding white light blows out the windows of the main abbey._ _

__Cas screams. Right through the stone, right through the glass, right through the light. He _screams_._ _

__Dean can feel it in his bones and it _hurts_. A feeling of separation starts in his chest and his lungs seize up. He can’t breathe. There’s stone around him, and a grinning blonde girl with black eyes with her hand buried in his chest. He can’t see Sam, he can’t _see_. _ _

__"Cas," he gasps, hand pressing against where his breastbone just wrenched itself to pieces. His shoulder feels like someone just tore the skin off it._ _

__But there’s no answer._ _

__For the first time in months, there’s no presence resting there _to_ answer._ _

__Dean's forgotten what it feels like to be empty and split open. He didn't even know that he was, before. But he is now, a space in him that wasn't there a moment before, and the horror of it chills his spine. Dean doubles up around his fist._ _

__Cas. No. Cas._ _

__Then he’s back. There’s cement under his feet. There’s grass in front of him. Sam—_ _

__"Dean?!" Sam looks up at him, alarmed, and lets Ruby's corpse—really a corpse, now—fall to the grass like the trash she was. He hops over her and grabs Dean's arm. His hand feels so hot. "Jesus, Dean, you're freezing, what—"_ _

__Cas._ _

__But Dean can't think of that now. He can't let himself fall into the split in his bones and the way his shoulder burns. "I'm fine," he says._ _

__And he remembers Cas saying it, smiling. Teasing._ _

__No._ _

__"I'm fine, Sammy," he grits out through the sand and bitter glass on his tongue. It's not true, but right now it has to be. Dean doesn’t have any other fucking option. "Cas couldn't stop her.” They knew he wouldn’t be able to—but he should have—he was supposed to follow them out the moment Sam was clear, get Lilith to chase them all out—the plan— “She's coming."_ _

__Sam doesn't look like he's buying it for a second, but Dean can't stop and think about it, or he'll never start again. He leans into Sam's support and digs out the stupid scythe that's been digging into the small of his back since this started. He hands the angel blade off to Sam, but letting go of it is harder than he expects._ _

__Because it's not just _a_ blade, but Cas's blade, his mind supplies. His hand trembles before releasing his grip. Sam takes it, still staring at Dean like he might crack apart at any moment._ _

__He might. Later._ _

__"You still got enough juice in you to hold her?" Dean asks, because they have to do this. They have to._ _

__Sam nods, his gaze having transferred to the blade in his hand. Dean realizes Sam has never held one before._ _

__"Well, then, gear up, Sammy," Dean tightens his grip on his weapon. "She's a'coming."_ _

__When Lilith charges out, she blows the doors out before she comes through them, the wood flaming and crashing. Neither of them flinch, but there's not a lot that still looks human about her._ _

__One arm is dangling and flapping in a boneless, broken way that makes it look like a tentacle. She's shedding delicate blonde hair behind her, and it burns as it falls. Briefly, Dean feels a surge of incredible, vicious, pride: Cas did that to her. Her eyes are huge and black from corner to corner, and blood is running from the corners of them. If she was ever beautiful, she isn't anymore._ _

__But maybe that's because Dean can see, or maybe feel, the cold that comes off her, the fact that what's inside her is hunger and rage. It knows it's going to die and it's hateful and furious about it. It's going to take out as many as it can before it does. It’s going to laugh as its death destroys the world._ _

__Dean knows this the same way he knows that his chest is empty and about to cave in, and that losing isn't an option._ _

__Sam's hand is up and his face twists, but there isn't that awful bliss on his face anymore. His eyes are his own._ _

__Lilith smiles like she doesn't even see Dean. "Sam, Sam," she croons. "You've been so naughty. But it's time to come back inside, now."_ _

__Despite having eyes only for Sam, she manages to shove Dean out of the way when he takes his first swing. It's a physical shove and it only moves him a few feet, but it makes connecting the scythe with Lilith's rotting flesh impossible._ _

__Dean takes a quick look at Sam: his arm is shaking, but it stays outstretched. His nose is bleeding again, but he's got a determined look in his face. Dean resolves not to waste it._ _

__He's two steps closer to her when Lilith's head swivels sharply in his direction and a wave of force comes for him. He stands his ground and that isn't something she expected. Dean's shoulder burns, but this time, the pain holds him up—bracing him. He knows exactly where this strength is coming from: the little piece of Cas he carries with him, warm and loving, flares outward like a sparkler making trails in the night before it dies out._ _

__Cas._ _

__Dean leans into a nonexistent wind and takes one step forward._ _

__Lilith finally looks a little bit scared. It's a good look on her._ _

__She glancesat the scythe in his hand, and there's no recognition there. But her eyes fix on Dean’s left shoulder, even covered-up as the handprint is. She has the same look on her face that Ruby did: that knowledge that something ain't right._ _

__"The Sword," she says, and the wind shoves at him harder._ _

__Well, it's not a sword Dean's carrying, and she's still not looking at it even though Dean's pretty sure it is the most dangerous thing on this field right now. Including him and Sam._ _

__But Lilith smirks, nasty and brilliant. Her teeth are sharp and shattered. "Well, looks like we're all on the same side, then."_ _

__What the fuck is that supposed to mean?_ _

__Dean's so busy trying to push against the wind that he doesn't quite register that it's gone until it slams into his knees, knocking him flailing and off balance. He goes down on one knee hard enough that bone vibrates unpleasantly._ _

__He drops the scythe and it cuts into the ground—absurdly, actually, into the ground—inches in front of his foot. Fuck. And he was carrying that at his back?_ _

__But Lilith has already turned back to Sam, and she's trying to back slowly towards the convent's open door again. She’s singing something sing-song and terrible in a language that isn’t English, and beckoning at Sam with both hands, one of her arms flapping and waving, boneless._ _

__Dean grabs the scythe. It comes out of the concrete with just the tiniest hitch, like pulling out of marshmallow, and that's just not something Dean's gonna think about right now. He pushes himself back upright. It's hard. There's a bone-deep exhaustion in him that's only getting worse. The cold is so awful he doesn’t think he can feel his fingers anymore. Dean focuses on his goal. Kill Lilith, he can deal with everything else later. Or not._ _

__"Hold her, Sam!" he growls._ _

__Sam is shaking, his arm no longer straight out, but slowly wilting downward. "Trying," he gasps._ _

__Dean takes three more steps, this time at an angle. He’s got to get behind her before she crosses the threshold back into the abbey. The invisible wind picks up again, but this time it's easier to keep shoving against it. The scythe in his hand warms, more than he thinks it should. His shoulder aches. His ribs burn. His backbone itches._ _

__There's power under his skin and it doesn't know where to go._ _

__Unless._ _

__Dean slips the scythe into his left hand and it's like a circuit completes, a rubber band snapping into place. The pain in his shoulder eases. Dean wants to laugh. He would, if he had the soul left for it: looks like Death isn't quite so indifferent to the whole thing after all._ _

__Lilith's demon form is thrashing, popping in and out of her meatbody like the creepiest jack-in-the-box, but Sam's got her good. She’s flickering up and in and out again, but she’s not going anywhere. But he's not gonna be able to hold her for long. Sam crumples down, small, but his arm's still up. There's tears of blood in his eyes as Dean fights closer and closer._ _

__Lilith watches him come and laughs. But there's something about it that sounds like whistling into the dark._ _

__She doesn't know what's happening here. Which is fine, 'cause Dean doesn't either, not exactly. She’s looking at him like she recognizes him. Like she thinks she knows him._ _

__"I'll eat your heart," she invites, in a voice like glass shards, "and Michael will watch and know all is lost. What do you think that toy will do to me, beloved of angels? I am the first of the damned, and with your precious brother's help I will free the Dark One. I will—"_ _

__"Shut the fuck up," Dean snaps, and swings the scythe._ _

__He hooks it through her chest, like a warm knife through butter. If butter had bones. She laughs at him right up until she feels it start to happen._ _

__Then there’s disbelief. Then there's _rage.__ _

__"What is this?" she shrieks, looking down at the way light is starting to bleed through her torso, and at least half of that sound wasn't in a range a human should be able to hear. Dean's ears feel beaten-up._ _

__"For an old bitch," Dean bites out, "You sure don't know your relics." The pain is starting to overtake him, finally. He’s finding it hard to breathe. Faintly, Dean hears Sam collapse the rest of the way, but he refuses to take his eyes off Lilith until he's sure she's good and dead._ _

__The human meat suit is coughing blood. The demon Dean can just make out is oozing black sludge, weeping tears of itself down her twisted, narrow face. The orange flashes of death finally start after almost too long._ _

__Dean takes a stumbling step closer, right up into her face. "Death says ‘Hi,’ you pathetic mutated little shit."_ _

__There's a moment, right before she dies, face upturned, screaming in pain and anger, where the true nature of exactly what she was beaten by finally sinks in. Dean's gonna treasure that look, for however many minutes more he's got._ _

__Lilith doesn't melt. She just... dies. Like everything dies: ugly and messy. When everything goes still—when the sky overhead just has stars and clouds in it—the body is in pieces. Her face is still twisted in an ugly scowl. The full force of her injuries is obvious, now. The scythe lies on the other side of the rib cage from where it started._ _

__There's silence. It's so quiet. It's so completely quiet and cold._ _

__It's just a spring evening in Maryland. And the world hasn't ended._ _

__Dean wants to go to his knees. He wants to curl into the emptiness inside him. He wants..._ _

__But since when has he ever gotten what he wanted?_ _

__So he takes one step. Another. Another. Because Sammy needs him now. Maybe they'll need each other, when Dean lets himself go into the cold he can feel radiating out to touch each of his limbs. But Sam is coughing, curled into a ball, crying bloody tears, and Dean's little brother needs him now._ _

__He doesn't even bother to kick at a fragment of Lilith as he makes his way past. She doesn’t matter anymore._ _

__Dean stumbles a little on the junction where concrete becomes grass, and then goes to his knees again, not even feeling the bite of gravel and pebbles when he lands harder than he means to. "Sam?" He puts an arm around Sam's shoulders, pulls him in, and lets him bleed gross red tears into Dean's already-ruined shirt._ _

__Once Sam has a tight hold around his chest, Dean's numb hands fumble into his pockets. It takes long seconds to get his cell phone out. He almost drops it three times before he gets it into view. His eyes are blurring._ _

__Bobby is speed dial #2. That also takes a few tries._ _

__"Dean?" Bobby's gruff voice, a little too loud in the tinny speaker, is a relief._ _

__"Hey, Bobby." Wow, Dean sounds like shit. "It's done. You should come here. I don't know how much I'm good for right now."_ _

__"You at the convent? I'm an hour away," he says._ _

__Dean pauses. His head is swimming around the edges, but Dean's pretty sure that is not right. Somehow. How can Bobby be an hour away? He was supposed to stay home, inside the wards. "Are you flying?"_ _

__Bobby makes a disgusted noise. "No.”_ _

__Of course Bobby didn’t stay home. What the fuck was Dean even thinking? Dean's gonna fight him on that when... when... he can't even use "when the world's not ending anymore," shit._ _

__“You boys can get to shelter?" Bobby asks, into the silence._ _

__Maybe. That would involve standing up again. Dean doesn’t want to ever stand up again. He’s freezing. If he kneels here long enough, maybe he’ll just turn to stone. Or ice._ _

__But he says "Yeah," because it's the only possible answer that Dean Winchester can accept out of himself._ _

__He doesn't say they're fine._ _

__"I'm driving faster," Bobby says, grimly._ _

__Dean's not sure how he and Sam get into the convent. Carrying each other, probably. He picks up the scythe as they wobble past it, and it hums in his hand a little. Like it's satisfied._ _

__Gross._ _

__He lowers Sam into a pew that’s still upright and crazily, stupidly, wishes he has something to wipe his little brother’s bloody face with._ _

__Sam focuses on his face, his hand on Dean's forearm. "Dean," he asks, sounding as wrecked as Dean feels. "Why are you so cold?"_ _

__How does Dean even answer that? He looks at the front of the room: the altar is trashed, and the walls have cracks in them at all different heights. There's dust everywhere, and blood. There’s so much blood. Dean has to close his eyes and swallow at those splatters. Just past the altar, he thinks he catches a glimpse of a pair of legs. Maybe, just maybe, the edge of an ugly beige trench coat._ _

__But he doesn’t have to see it to know._ _

__They're in the back of the room and Dean knows that somewhere up there is Cas's body, not even twenty feet away. He just… he can't do that yet. Not yet._ _

__So instead he presses a shaking hand to Sam's forehead. "I think maybe you're just a little warm." Sam is, but they both probably know that's not the real issue._ _

__It occurs to Dean that the car isn't that far away. There's supplies in there to at least clean Sam up a bit. Dean’s knees won't unlock from where he's sitting, though, so he decides they'll just wait for Bobby._ _

__Sam doesn't ask again. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wood._ _

__Dean's not sure how long they sit there, staring into nothing, before the first footsteps hit his ears. Dean clenches the scythe in his numb, cold hands and hopes to God that that's Bobby, and not another surprise._ _

__Dean can't do any more surprises just yet._ _

__"Well, don't you two look like a meat grinder spat you out," Bobby says, striding up to them. The relief just barely tickles the back of Dean’s eyes. "I seen sausage prettier than you."_ _

__He's such a welcome sight that Dean's chest almost starts working again._ _

__Sam's shaking, now, but he's not bleeding and he's not throwing himself against the walls. Dean isn't sure he'd be able to stop him if he were. "Bobby?" Sam slurs. "Are you real?"_ _

__"As a bad brake line," Bobby confirms. He looks around. "I saw the pieces outside. So this is where the end of the world was supposed to start? Kind of a shithole," he mutters._ _

__Dean almost laughs. Almost._ _

__Then Bobby asks, looking at Dean, "Where's your angel, anyway? Cas getting you boys something to clean up with?"_ _

__Dean takes an uneven breath, then another. He can't say it. He can't. The first time he's aware he's crying is when the tears drip hot off his chin._ _

__"Son?" Bobby asks and his voice has gone softer and gruffer at the same time._ _

__Dean lifts a shaking hand and points to the front, at the altar. Sam's face follows the arc of his hand, a dawning sort of horror coming over it. Dean's sure it hasn't occurred to him yet that Cas hasn't reappeared. Dean doesn't really blame him, the kid has a lot going on right now._ _

__Bobby's gaze follows his hand and then with a gentleness Dean hasn't felt since he was a boy, Bobby presses Dean’s trembling hand back down. “You just stay here,” he says, quietly. "I'll have a look."_ _

__He doesn’t promise that everything’ll be okay. Bobby’s been a hunter longer than Dean’s been alive. They all know he can’t make a promise like that._ _

__Dean lets his head fall back and stares at the cracked, dirty ceiling. He hears Bobby's quiet "ah, shit, shit" from far, far away._ _

__But Dean knew. He already sort of knew._ _

__It doesn't make it any better. It doesn't make it hurt any less. It just... is._ _

__When Dean opens eyes he didn't realize he’d closed, he finds Sam looking at him with an awful wobble to his lips, even through the blood all over his face. "Dean,” he whispers. “I... I'm so sorry."_ _

__It's not Sam's fault. Never was, not really. This was the plan all along. Just... not this part of it._ _

___"If this is to be the last night of my life..."_ Cas told him, intense and smiling and joyful. No fear. No regret. That wasn’t the way Cas did things, not ever._ _

__Dean can't even tell Sam "I know." He can't even scream and throw things. He's too cold and too empty. He's done._ _

__He just nods and leans his head back against the hard stone wall, tasting the tears still on his lips._ _

__His eyes stay closed. He just can't look; he can barely listen. He gives Bobby Baby’s keys, when asked, and he hears the rustle and flap as the tarp is spread onto the ground. Bobby huffs and grunts as he heaves weight over his shoulder, but he doesn't complain. His boots clomp and shuffle, heavy on the debris-covered floor. Dean only opens his eyes again after he's sure Bobby's left the room with Cas's—with Cas._ _

__Bobby brings back some fresh clothing and a huge bag of wet wipes. Sam takes nearly all of them getting the blood off his face and chest. Dean's only got a spattering here or there. The wound in his side has already stopped bleeding. Bobby sits next to him while Sam is changing. The sound of clothes rustling sounds like…_ _

__Like wings._ _

__"So," Bobby says, quietly. "You know where you want the pyre?"_ _

__Why’s Bobby even asking? They should do it here. They should just get it over with—_ _

__Dean can’t. He can’t. Not here._ _

__Dean looks down and chokes back a sob. "The salvage yard." Dean’s not sure when he realized that four wheels and a gorgeous steel frame and his brother at his side might not always be everything that he needed or wanted—that maybe, in some situations, other people and places can do that for him. Maybe he didn’t truly realize it until now, until he’s thinking of… of pancakes in an old cast iron pan and a proud little smile to go with them, of tripping over a stolen USPS box in a guest bedroom with fresh sheets in it. Dean never thought he’d have a home, not really, but the person who slowly came to represent everything he might want in one should be laid to rest at the next best thing._ _

__God. He’s got to call Jimmy and Amelia. He’s got to… but how the fuck is Dean supposed to do that again? Yeah, there’s a body, this time, but the only funeral that they can give Cas is the hunter kind. Jimmy’s not going to get that. Dean should tell him to his face. He should let Cas’s twin scream at him. Punch him. He deserves it. He’d welcome it._ _

__Later. Later. Dean holds out his hand for his keys, because he's driven with a hole in his being and a death sentence over his head before._ _

__Bobby looks at him and shakes his head. "Lemme drive, boy,” he says, with a firm, gruff kindness. “You just put your head down. You just saved the world, you know? You two did."_ _

__Dean knows it. He'll probably be glad of it someday. But today, he just lowers his hand._ _

__“Yeah,” he says, very softly. "It's over."_ _

__No one contradicts him._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tia:** I'm sorry, I am so sorry. I know, this chapter gave us emotional whiplash, too. But I'm going to flail apologetically in the direction of the tags right now, most especially the second to last! (While Ami, I think, is probably over there making cackling noises and pointing out that I spent a good deal of the editing of this chapter making it _more_ hurty rather than less...)
> 
>  **Ami:** ::pops in:: Oh you thought WITSEC was for the LAST chapter? Oh no, I was just getting it comfy to run to after posting THIS chapter.
> 
> Also yes, definitely blame tia. None of this was my idea. At all. Nope. I am an innocent creature.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Tia:** I know, I know, it still hurt even though many of you knew that it was coming... I really am sorry about that! We'll always take care of you, though, promise! (And, er, hold on nice and tight to that thought...)

Bobby loads him and Sam into the back of the Impala. They’re both pretty out of it. Dean can feel the engine of the Impala turn over once he’s inside, a warm rumble that never used to fail to make him smile. Until now. Now, it feels hollow. It feels like something else that’s going to make Dean’s bones shake apart.

Just as Bobby pulls Baby out of park, Dean can feel the slight pop in the brakes that’s a trademark of someone not familiar with driving his car. The usual indignation about it is absent, but beside him, Sam lifts his head and stirs, sitting forward...

“Bobby! What about your car?” Sam’s sounding a little slurred, but clearer than earlier.

“Left it.” Bobby snorts and continues to pull out of the convent’s overgrown, cracked lot. “Why d’ya think I drive junkers? No one’ll touch it ‘til I can get someone to haul it back for me.”

“Oh.” Dean can almost hear the blink Sam makes as he computes that. “Okay, then.”

Sam settles down after that. Dean's not sure which of them leans into the other or passes out first.

When Dean wakes up again, he expects to see an endless blizzard outside the window, cold and swirling like the one in his sleep. He's shivering. It takes a few seconds for the lights of other cars, strobe flashing in the opposite direction along some main highway, to resolve into reality, instead of the uneven blanket of light a heavy snowstorm can create. 

But of course it’s not snowing. It’s spring. It’s dark. There's a takeout bag next to Dean’s left hand, a water bottle tucked against his thigh.

"Burgers and fries," Sam says, softly. He sounds a little better. "Should still be hot."

"Get something in your belly," Bobby tells him, over his shoulder.

Dean knows he should, but the smell of grilled meat and fries turns his stomach. He shakes his head, but he sips the water. Then he puts his head against the window and closes his eyes again.

He’s awake for long enough to hear that Bobby identified Lilith’s host off a wallet. She is (was) the sister of the young dental hygienist whose body they had to burn. That family’s lost two of their daughters to the Winchesters, now.

His dreams are disjointed and cold, edged with ice. The most recent one is more of a never-ending darkness, sucking all the light and warmth away from Dean, the tiny glowing curls swirling away into an endless abyss. Dean wishes his shoulder still hurt, rather than this terrible numbness that spikes right into his sleep. He wishes a lot of things. 

Sam shakes him awake. Dean would normally come awake swinging, but he hasn’t got the energy for it: he just looks dully at his brother. He’s got no idea where the rest stop is that they pull into. He wasn’t planning to get out of the car, but Bobby and Sam both natter at him until he pulls himself out and walks to the men’s room. His steps are steady. They probably find that reassuring. 

They’ve got no idea Dean can barely feel the ground under his feet. Hell, he barely feels the zipper under his fingers when he gets his pants open to piss.

As he washes his hands, his reflection in the cracked mirror is colorless. His lips are grey. He doesn’t think it’s just the incredibly harsh, shitty lighting.

“I look dead,” Dean mutters. 

Yeah, well. He feels it, too.

That lasts until he gets back to Baby. Bobby’s not back yet, probably grabbing something at the Red Robin whose sign is flashing a scarlet that hurts Dean’s eyes, but Sam’s got a hopeful expression on his face as he shoves a small cardboard box at Dean. Dean takes it with a frown. It’s warm.

Dean pulls open the steam-soft top. The smell, cinnamon and fruit and pastry, hits him before the sight of it does: a narrow, soggy piece of apple pie, wedged next to a plastic fork. 

Cinnamon and syrup and tart sugar on his tongue, the flaky, buttery crust and the way the edge pieces crunched. Baby’s hood still warm under the back of his thighs in the late fall air. The way Dean tried to give Cas the last bite, and Cas wouldn’t let him. The taste of apple on Cas’s tongue, and the tight, sweet feel of his smile against Dean’s. The shyness in his smile when he called that their first date.

Dean doesn’t feel his fingers letting go of the box. He doesn’t see the fork go spiraling off over the cracks, or the piece of rest stop apple pie that Sam must have gotten for him because he knows it’s Dean’s favorite, _everyone_ knows that, splattering on the concrete. 

The nausea that hits him is a living wave, the cold sweat of it prickling frigid all the way down Dean’s back, and he gags, curling in on himself, one hand on Baby’s hood. He’s only vaguely aware of the sting along his ribs as the muscles there work to reverse digestion, the clench of his abs and the swipe of pain in his injured side as he doubles over.

But there’s nothing in him to throw up. He’s too cold. He’s empty.

Dean wipes his mouth with the back of his hand anyway. Then his eyes.

Sam looks like he might cry. But, for once, he doesn’t try to say anything.

Dean doesn’t look back at the crumpled box when he crawls back into Baby’s back seat and closes his eyes.

There’s a soft bed under his fingertips, sheets that are clean and smooth, a warm blanket over his legs. He’s cold, but it’s not the empty chill he’s started to become used to. There’s something missing, but he’s too tired to figure out what. The pull of warm sleep is so strong and Dean thinks nothing of curling harder into… into…

The mattress behind him is still dimpled, like with the arch of someone else’s weight, but there’s no one there. There’s no warmth to it, like no one was ever there. Dean doesn’t know what he was expecting, though, or why he thought it would be any different. There’s never anyone there. He never takes anyone back to motels with him. 

But he was expecting something. Wasn’t he?

He doesn’t want to open his eyes; he wants to sleep. But his hands can’t stop from moving, feeling the empty hollow in the bed next to him.

The bed falls away and Dean with it. He lands in a blink on Baby’s hood, legs splayed, arms akimbo. The greenery around him as familiar as his own face. That night is burned into his memory. Adam’s dead, that poor damned kid. He told Sam that a bartender might be the love of his life. He lied, and there doesn’t seem to be a reason for it, because it’s winter and Baby’s getting colder and colder underneath him. 

He’s waiting for something, and someone, but he’s not even sure why: it’s not like Dean’s ever had anyone he could count on that way. He’s never been one to vomit out his feelings. It’s just him, the night sky, and the silent motor of a ‘67 Chevy Impala. Just like it’s always been.

There can’t be anything missing, because there never was anything here to go missing. 

Dean pushes himself off the hood and falls, but his feet don’t even hit the ground. He’s in a barn when he lands.

There’s Uriel, and Inias, the assholes, but there’s no reason they should be looking at him like that: with sympathy. With something that almost looks like _pity_. He’s Dean fucking Winchester, he’s no one a dick with wings should pity, but for some reason, he’s looking at a small glass vial whose pieces are strewn around on the floor. It’s been crushed. Whatever was inside it is gone. Underneath it, there’s a smear of blood gone old and brown. 

Dean tries to move again, but he’s in a motel, now. He’s in Ipswich, Maryland. There’s a truly ugly pattern of diamonds on the wallpaper. The lights are on, and he’s naked. His clothes are scattered where he left them on the floor, but they’re tangled with someone else’s.

An ugly beige trench coat, soaked with holy water and drenched wet with blood. A puddle of suit jacket and slacks, a button-down with no buttons. Black boots ripped open with their soles lying apart from their bodies. A sad, limp, blue polyester tie, curled up like a death throe and scorched at the edges. The remnants of an angel blade, lying in glittering fragments that are sharp and bright enough to wound.

When he looks into the mirror, Dean sees the knowledge in his own eyes. His left shoulder is broad and bare. And there’s no evidence there was ever a handprint on it at all. 

This time, he wakes up to a blanket tucked around him and an empty back seat. His mouth is open and he can feel the scream vibrating on the back of his tongue, but he swallows it when he realizes he’s no longer trapped in his nightmare. 

Well. _A_ nightmare.

The blanket tucked around him is the one Dean had hauled out at the park for him and Cas to sit on. It’s soft and it’s warm. It still has grass stains on it and the smell of soil and spring and a future.

It doesn’t make him feel any warmer. 

But he’s awake, and he’s alive. Or at least, he assumes so. Sam is driving, and the sun is starting to rise in the distance. Bobby is passed out, dead to the world, in the passenger seat. He’s snoring.

Dean assumes Sam must be in the calm before the storm with the demon blood. He never did ask how much Sam had to drink. He's not sure he wants to know.

He catches sight of a familiar highway sign drawing closer. They're about seven hours out from Bobby's place, which means Dean's been asleep for around ten to twelve hours total. He feels like he could do another ten, easy. 

This time, there's a bag of chips and another bottle of water wedged near him. No cooked food. Dean sips the water and eats the chips, mechanically, one by one. They don’t taste like anything. Sam peeks at him in the rearview mirror at the crunch and the crinkle, but, thankfully, doesn't say anything.

Dean tucks the blanket back around his shoulders and lets himself go back to sleep, his head rattling where it rests at the crook between Baby’s back seat and a window. The eventual conclusion to all of this is going to come way too soon, and Dean's happier to be asleep than to be awake and feeling the way he does. Right now, it’s the only thing that he can do. Even the nightmares are better than living with the reality right now anyway.

When he wakes up again, it's dark again. Sam's beside him again, and the scenery outside his window is familiar. There's a touch of light to the edge of the sky that suggests that the sun might be rising soon. His brother’s face is turned towards him.

"Dean," Sam says. Just the tone of his voice is enough to make Dean want to press his face to the window really hard. Until he knocks himself out again.

"I got nothing to say, Sammy," he says, tiredly. He realizes it's the most he's said since they left the convent. And it's still true.

"I know, I..." Sam swallows, and the harsh choke of it makes Dean actually turn to look at him. Sam looks young and tired and shaky, but not... not what he probably will be in a few hours. "What do you wanna do?"

It's such a weird question that Dean actually feels himself blink awake. "What do you mean?"

Sam's mouth curves in a half-smile before it droops downwards again. "You know. From here. What do you wanna do? With... with everything."

"What he's sayin'," Bobby says, over his shoulder, "is you idjits warded off the apocalypse. You need a damned vacation. Go to the beach or some shit."

But when Bobby says that, Dean thinks of churros. Of the Star Wars theme. Of pies on the Impala's hood. Of a little restaurant and the sound of Greek in the air.

Of “When we're all done here, we're gonna drive down to Florida. Take a fuckin' day on the beach. Couple of beers, stick our toes in the sand and throw shit at seagulls. You an' me, and—”

And.

“We have to. You promised Bobby, and now Sam. So we all have to survive this.”

Cas didn’t promise.

Dean turns his face away again. Under the blanket, the ring on his finger is so cold.

One day at a time.

What he does know is that he's done. At least, for a long time. Someone else can save people. Someone else can do the right thing, for once, even if it loses him pieces of himself. Someone else can die but still be walking and talking like there's not a cold, dark hole in their chest.

Eventually, Dean shifts the ring from his right hand to his left. No point in anything else now, he's definitely not planning on punching anything harder than a wall for the next little while. Besides, it's more truthful than anything else he's ever done. And if Dean can't be truthful now, when can he?

They get to Bobby's around mid-morning. Sam and Bobby head inside. There's a vague conversation going on through the door they left open about when Sam's going to need to isolate in the panic room again. Dean cares about that, he does, but there's something he has to do first.

Dean doesn’t try to cross the warding that he knows won’t touch him anymore. He goes around the back. He starts chopping wood. The sharp pain of the wound in his side stabs and stabs and stabs, but it keeps him here.

When next he looks up, the wreckage of young trees is around him like the grave he crawled himself out of. It feels like a very long time ago. His hands hurt, and his shoulders ache. Bobby's sitting on a stump far enough away that he's not going to get hit by a falling sapling.

Dean drops the axe beside him with a thump when his hand cramps. He looks down at his palms. He hasn't bloodied them, at least. They're aching and raw. They’re still cold.

Bobby just says, quietly, "Want some help, son? I can finish up here."

Dean opens his mouth to say no, but there's a quiet look in Bobby's eyes that looks like understanding. Like maybe Bobby gets it. But that's not what makes him pause in picking up the axe again. 

"What are you tryin' to say, old man," Dean says, roughly, because he can't be gentle right now.

Bobby shakes his head, but he doesn't look away from Dean's eyes. The shadows of his eyebags are probably as deep and dark as Dean’s own. "I figured you'd want to..." he clears his throat. "Take care of him yourself. He's laid out, now. I got the shrouds by him."

Dean closes his eyes and wishes himself anywhere but here. Anywhen but here. Two days ago. Six months ago.

When he opens his eyes, he's still here. And Bobby's not wrong.

"Thanks," he says. Because he can be grateful, at least, for that.

Dean stops by the door to the metallic shed. Its usual job is a place to be able to paint the cars without nature getting in the way. It's well-ventilated and temperature controlled. It doesn't look it from the outside, with all the tin siding and the patches of rust, but it's really an ideal spot to prepare a body for burial. Or pyre.

He places his palm against the door and takes a deep breath. The door opens in, the lights are on, the air conditioner is running and on the main center table is the bo—is Cas. 

Bobby's covered him in a light, clean sheet, and that's probably good. Dean's not sure he could have handled him just lying there, when he's not yet prepared to look.

(He’ll probably never be prepared to look, will he. Doesn’t mean he’s not going to have to do it.)

His first step closer almost wrenches a sob out of him, but Dean chokes it back. He pulls in. There are things to do first. Slowly he winds closer to the table until finally, he reaches out a trembling hand and pulls the sheet away, too quickly, like gauze that’s scabbed right into a wound.

"Cas…" Dean says and God, he sounds worse than the last time he spoke.

Cas's face is a mess. It's bloody and bruised and Dean can just imagine what the rest of him looks like. Dean looks at the preparation table. Next to the shroud and the ropes are soap and a big metal bowl of water, a couple of the industrial rags that Bobby buys in bulk for the cars. Hunter burial rites aren't really that big on ritual, but sometimes they die with crap on them you don't want burning near other humans.

And sometimes they die and leave loved ones behind who just have to cope in strange ways.

Dean picks up a rag and wets it. The water’s cold. He wishes it weren’t, but it’s not like Cas would care.

When Dean washes the blood and dust off Cas's face, though, he doesn't look peaceful. He looks... he looks worried and scared and in pain. He looks broken.

And Dean can't even pretend that it's not his fault Cas is here, like this, cold on a table in a shitty salvage shed.

All of this, in some way, is Dean's doing. If it hadn't been for him, Cas would never...

"Why'd you do it?" Dean asks. His voice cracks. Water rolls down Cas’s cheekbone and pools on his ear, tracking through the dust and dried blood on his face as Dean’s fingers clench too tightly on the rag in his hand. Cas was supposed to follow them out, goddammit. He was just supposed to buy them a little time. He wasn’t supposed to try to duke it out with a goddamned immortal demon they all knew he couldn’t beat. "Why'd you..."

But he knows the answer. It used to live right under his breastbone and tingle on his shoulder. It used to make him smile when Cas cocked his head or squinted or sassed. It used to make him curl up in the hollow of Cas's body and say "fuck it" to anyone who called it cuddling.

Cas, more than anyone Dean had ever met, believed in choices and the freedoms that came with them. It wasn’t like he’d never said it. He’d choose Dean every time, and by extension, Sam. He’d buy them as much time as he could get them.

No matter what it cost.

Dean knows exactly why. But if he could've chosen otherwise for Cas, he would've.

Under the sheet, it's not as bad. Dean doesn't know if that makes it better or worse. Cas’s clothes are dirty and torn, the skin under them shredded. Right in the middle of his chest, though, his shirt has a black-edged burn hole right through it. Dean averts his eyes from what’s underneath.

It's awful to think that Dean's seen worse, and it doesn't make it any better.

But he keeps going, carefully touching the damp corner of the rag to every bloodstain on Cas’s face, on his hands. Dean straightens his trench coat, and swallows at the sight of the missing buttons. He’ll wrap Cas in that coat, inside his shroud. He thinks Cas would like that. Would have liked that.

Cas is clean, now. Or as clean as Dean can make him.

Dean knows what he shouldn't be doing. He knows it'll just make it harder. It’s over. But he does it anyway—pushes his fingers through Cas's, intertwines them.

One last time.

He closes his eyes.

Dean loses time, memorizing the final feel of Cas's hand in his. The weight of it, the texture, the size. The way his fingers fit between his knuckles perfectly. It’s cold, but rigor has passed.

_"We two are so entwined now..."_

He hikes his hip onto the table, and pulls their entwined hands towards his chest.

"Hey Cas," Dean finally says. "I never wanted to talk about the future because I didn't want to admit I didn't think I had one. It wasn't fair to either of us to plan for that, if all you were going to do was lose me. You know?” He pauses, like he’s waiting for an answer, and God, why would he even? “But… I didn't think about it going down this way and I think I know why now."

He brings their hands upwards and presses his lips to Cas's knuckles, swallowing some tears back.

"I don't know how to do this anymore," he admits and it's almost as much to himself as it is to Cas. "God. I never thought I’d have it, y’know? Never thought… never let myself want it before, and then you were there. And now I don't know how to be… just me again."

He takes a few unsteady breaths. Even with the air conditioning raising goosebumps on his skin, he can hear the rasp at the back of his throat. "I think I'm out. All I'll do is get myself or someone else killed and I know—" his voice breaks and it takes him some time to steady it again. "And I know that's not what you'd want. You’d be so pissed.” The laugh that rips out of him feels like it’s going to leave him bleeding. Because Cas would be pissed. He really would. “Cas, man... I'll try, but I don't know if that'll amount to jack shit."

He runs his free hand down Cas's dirty, bloody sleeve. "Only reason I'm not blind drunk right this second is I need to remember this and I... I think maybe you wouldn't appreciate that, either." He cups Cas's cheek. It's still soft and prickly the way he remembers it feeling against his neck. "So I'll try not to die or to get myself killed, but after this, I’m gonna be drunk for a good long while. Please don’t be mad, ‘kay? I just… I can’t. I... I don't know if I'll ever really li—" 

Dean clamps his mouth shut as his throat closes.

The hot tears sting painfully as they come down, and Dean's just going to spend a long time with red eyes. Fuck. He takes a few deliberate deep breaths, straightens his shoulders and wipes the tears away with his fingers. Enough. That’s enough. "Okay." He shakes out his shoulders. "Okay. Time to get to work. Gotta see you on your way."

He leans in to give Cas one last kiss on the cheek before letting go. Dean presses softly against the slack, cool skin, counts to three and then lifts away, gently putting Cas’s hand back at his sidejust as he finishes straightening.

Dean turns to grab the next clean cloth, comes back around to Cas and—

Cas’s eyes are open.

"Bobby!" Dean backs away, trips over his own two feet, nearly knocks the water off the table. He doesn’t have a knife on him, not a blade or holy water or anything but the tattoo on his chest, but that’s not what breaks Dean’s throat. "Fuck— _Bobby!_ " His voice is ragged and hysterical, but that's just how a guy sounds when he’s worried he’s finally lost his mind.

Because the alternative is worse. It’s so, so much worse.

Bobby comes running in, slamming the door open soon enough he must have been just behind it, and crashes right into Dean's back. Probably because Dean screaming and running away from something that scares the shit out of him doesn't happen. He's more likely to be running towards it.

They both go down in a heap, and the pain of Dean's elbow slamming into a work bench almost jars him into thinking he's sane.

From here, from down here on the floor, those open blue eyes can't haunt him, and Cas's body is still and cold aga—

"Ouch," Cas says, from on top of the table, with all the fucking eloquence of a goddamned Ph.D.

"Aw, hell!" Bobby gasps, and grabs for his shotgun.

"Please don't shoot me," Cas says, weariness leaking from the words. "I already hurt more than I care to express."

Dean's still on the floor, and he's staying on the floor. The floor is nice. There aren’t any hallucinations, demons, or monsters on the floor.

Bobby grumbles and steps closer to the table, but doesn't uncock the gun. Crazy bastard carries holy water and a Swiss army knife’s worth of testing materials in his pocket. Dean watches from an angle that really only gives him a view of Bobby's legs and backside as he splashes and slashes.

Cas sighs. "Well, seeing as how I'm already covered in blood,” he mutters, grouchily, “what's a few more open wounds between friends?"

"I'll show you open wounds," Bobby growls but he gets less and less tense with each step of the process. From where Dean’s still sitting with his legs splayed out around him, he hears the shotgun getting uncocked with a soft click, and then the gun getting put down entirely.

"There better be a good explanation for this," Bobby says, sharply, before turning to Dean and crouching down beside him with a grunt that sounds like a silent complaint about his knees. "It's him, Dean. Unless you got a kind of monster that consecrated iron or silver doesn't cover, it's definitely him." Bobby pauses, and voices Dean’s own fears. “He’s not a demon, son.”

Dean swallows a lump that tastes like fear, that tastes like _hope_. "But then why does—why do I—" Dean’s chest still aches so much, and his shoulder is still so cold. There are things he doesn't just _know_ that he should—that he got used to knowing.

"Because I was nearly torn out of this mortal plane, and there should have not been anything that could keep me here," Cas says, quietly, but very obviously in Dean's direction. Dean stares at the floor so he doesn’t have to try to meet his eyes. "That I remained was not without a price. We were injured," Cas goes on, so gently, "on a metaphysical level."

Bobby's got his listening face on. He looks to Dean, squeezes his arm. "I'll go look up if there's a metaphysical bandage we can whip up, then.” He only sounds a tiny bit sarcastic. “Why don't you stay here, talk to Cas a bit more."

Dean doesn't want to talk to Cas. He doesn't want to believe it can be real, because if it turns out not to be—if this is just a fever dream Dean's having in Baby's back seat—Dean's going to end up twice as wrecked when he finally opens his eyes again. That's why djinn dreams work. That's why they're so hard to slip out of.

"Come here?" Cas says, sad and a little pleading. That place where their connection should be inside Dean aches and pulses like a cut artery. "Please? I... I can't see you from here. It's worse, when I can hear you but I can't see you."

Dean doesn't move. He sets his knee up in front of him and rests his forehead on his kneecap. "How?" he asks, talking into the fabric of his jeans. "How are you... what the fuck is a metaphysical injury, Cas?!"

"Can't you feel it?" Cas answers, still quietly, like he's scared he's gonna spook Dean. Good fucking call. Dean’s seen a lot of shit in his life, but he’s pretty damned spooked. "I didn't mean to scare you. I didn't..." he sighs, softly. "I'll explain. But please look at me, Dean. At least give me that much connection."

The sad little hint of accusation, weirdly, is what brings Dean's head off his knee and pushes him through to his feet. Because he's always been a contrary sonofabitch in a lot of ways.

But he still sways on his feet when he meets Cas's eyes. They’re awake. They’re aware. He’d fucking _swear_ that it’s his Cas, looking at him sadly from his position lying on top of a table, his face all beaten-up and his lips cracked. "Why can't you move?" he finally asks, hoarsely.

Cas's response is simple. "Too weak," he says. "Lilith attempted to exorcise me to Heaven. It was… a clever thing. A way to get rid of me with minimal energy expenditure on her part. I would have, no doubt, been summarily executed."

Dean stays leaning against the corrugated wall, hands behind his back, pressing into the metal. If he puts his hands in front of him, he’s too afraid that he'll reach out before he's ready and touch Cas, and find out it really is all in his head. "Angels can be exorcised?"

"It's an Enochian chant that was meant for Lucifer and those who followed him. I'm fairly sure my former brethren made sure no human book kept the knowledge of it, if it was ever even committed to written word. But Lilith is the first demon? She was Lucifer’s, first: she spoke Enochian. She would definitely remember a time when the knowledge was more widespread." Cas looks tired—no, Cas looks half-dead, and the other half exhausted. It's not a good look for him. Dean got most of the blood off his face before Cas opened his eyes and scared the shit out of him, but the bruising still looks painful. He can't even begin to imagine how the rest of Cas's body feels.

Dean takes a long steadying breath. "What took you so long to come back?" Because he _knows_ Bobby checked for any and all signs of life. With what they do, they’re very fucking good at finding them when they’re there.

Cas's eyes soften and the look he gives Dean physically hurts him. A tiny smile sneaks at his lips, and then is gone. "We broke the rules one last time, my love."

Dean chokes back a sob. Fuck. Fuck, he can’t hear that. Cas can’t say that.

"What Lilith did _should_ have worked. I’m originally of Heaven, Dean. It would have been excruciating for me, but it still should have been easy to simply throw me back. But I think… I think our connection is… outside of the bounds of natural order of the universe in many ways.” Cas swallows, and Dean can hear the effort that it takes. “I think I was… I _am_... tied here, now, not to Heaven. She tried to send me back, and it didn’t work… but I paid a price for it. We paid a price. I was held together by the thinnest of threadbare lines. I _know_ I could not have come back without you." There are tears of strain in the corners of Cas's eyes by the time he finishes. There's a tremor in his hand, and his fingers are flexing, trying to move.

"What do you mean, without me?" Dean asks, suspicious in a way he doesn't want to be. In a way he doesn't really feel. He doesn't move any closer, even though he has to clench his hands in fists to his sides to keep from reaching out and touching Cas's battered hand again. His ring is scratched-up, Dean notices, like from far away. But he can't take his attention off the sad little flex of Cas’s fingers.

Cas closes his eyes again, like Dean pressed against the wall and refusing to go any nearer to him is more than he's able to take. "If you hadn't touched me again, I likely would have faded away altogether in the next few days," Cas says, simply. Like there's anything fucking simple about that. "But I've told you, Dean. My grace, my being... responds to you. Our connection isn't broken. If it had been, I wouldn't be here anymore at all."

He would have died, is what Cas isn't saying. For real.

Dean's shoulders push off the wall. He doesn't want to, but he takes one step closer. Another. Because he needs to. Because the emptiness in his chest hurts, but it doesn't hurt as much as it did a day ago. An hour ago. Ten minutes ago, before he reached out and took Cas's hand.

If this is a dream, if this is an illusion, Dean doesn't know how to get himself out of it. Or even if he really wants to. Or even if he _can._

Dean makes it to the table, inches from Cas, but it takes longer to unclench his fist and reach out. Cas keeps looking at him like he thinks Dean is going to disappear into mist, when _he's_ the one who was doing a damn good imitation of a dead body not even an hour ago.

Dean slides the backs of his fingers over the back of Cas's hand until they trip over the edge between thumb and forefinger and Cas turns his hand underneath. They're palm to palm.

Cas frowns, a bit more tension settling into the lines of his mouth and eyes. "...Where's your ring?" he asks, shakily.

Dean realizes they're holding right hands. He waves his left hand into Cas's line of sight. "Switched it to the hand it was always supposed to be on," he croaks. Cas's hand is warm and lax, and the cool, waxy stiffness of even fifteen minutes ago is gone. Dean's about ready to collapse, but he also already feels warmer, the unnatural chill he's had since it all happened finally melting off. His shoulder beats, like his pulse.

Cas's lips curve in the barest hint of a smile. "I don't know about that," he says, very seriously. "You do like to punch things."

Dean croaks out something that almost sounds like a real laugh. _"Asshole,"_ he mutters. "I wasn't the one who went toe-to-toe with Original Demon Barbie and ended up dead, okay?"

Cas closes his eyes again, and Dean almost panics, but it looks like he's closing them to feel, not like he's going to slip away again. "Only _mostly_ dead. There's a big difference between 'mostly dead' and 'all dead.'" His fingers curl through Dean's like little plant shoots going for the light.

Dean frowns. "Is that supposed to be funny?"

Cas cracks open an eye. "How is it that you, who seems to know everything in the world about pop culture, doesn't recognize a quote from the Princess Bride?"

Dean settles a hip onto the table, this time close enough to feel Cas pressing against him, because now he can feel the warmth, the, the _aliveness,_ for lack of a better word, coming from Cas's body. "I dunno, sounds like a chick flick." He pulls their hands up until their forearms are pressing together against Dean's chest.

Cas laughs and that expanding feeling inside Dean's chest is back, warm and light. He never thought he'd hear Cas laugh again. "One might say," Cas says between chuckles, "it is a kissing story, but with swashbucklers. I suspect you'll enjoy it."

"Yeah, well." Dean's breath hitches; he's almost ready to allow himself to be happy. Almost. "Let's save it for our next date. You owe me a third one. I hear the really good stuff happens after the third date."

"Dean," Cas says, very seriously, "if the stuff after our dates gets any better, I may never recover."

Dean laughs, but it's a laugh full of tears. "We _are_ kind of good at the sex."

"Alarmingly." Cas nods in agreement, but even that much movement looks like it exhausts him.

Dean kisses his knuckles. "Is there something I can do to help?"

"Just hold me?" Cas asks and he's so tentative and quiet about it that Dean hurts inside. He's so mad, but not at Cas.

Dean is about to ask how, because as much as he wants that, he's not lying down on that table with Cas. For one thing, he's not exactly sure it'll hold both of them.

But Cas is sort of struggling himself into a sitting position, shoving his free arm underneath himself. His face goes white with the effort and Dean automatically lunges close, grabbing onto his shoulder.

That increased contact makes a rush of familiar warmth shoot up Dean's arm. By the time Cas is sitting up, the color is back on his face and his split lip isn't swollen anymore. His chest is warm and pliant against Dean, but shaking with effort and maybe not an insignificant amount of pain.

He tips just his head in and leans soft and snuggly against Dean's shoulder, smelling like stone dust and blood, but under it, Cas. Dean's Cas. Together, they breathe. 

Cas curls his left arm around Dean, wrapping around and up Dean's back, landing on the back of his neck. Dean shudders at the feeling of familiar calluses stroking softly at his skin. With every minute Cas's shaking improves, though Dean's gets a little worse. He still can't quite believe he gets this.

There's wetness on his neck and Dean realizes they're both crying. Fuck it. When Cas pulls back slightly, Dean's hold tightens just for a second before he loosens his muscles.

"I'm not going anywhere," Cas murmurs. "Not even if I were sure my legs could support me." He leans in to kiss the salt tracks off Dean's face before resting their foreheads together. "Dean, if it's alright with you, I'd prefer never to leave your side again."

Dean closes his eyes and lets their noses touch. "Bathroom breaks could get pretty awkward." He's smiling, though, finally smiling.

"Oh. Well, I don't think I'm into that," Cas answers, still serious as hell. "But if you are, we can negotiate."

This time, Dean's smile turns into a full-blown laugh. It might be a little hysterical, but it's real. "Jesus fucking Christ, you're makin' dirty jokes. Now I know I've corrupted you."

" _Please_ do," Cas answers, half a prayer, half a laugh of his own.

 _"Dean?"_ exclaims Sam from the door, barreling through it like he's going for vamps and waving the angel blade that Dean hadn't had the heart to take back from him. "Dean, Bobby said— _oh my God_!"

"No, probably not Him," Cas mumbles into Dean's neck, "but, well. Who knows."

"If you say He works in mysterious ways, Cas, so help me..." Dean mutters, but he can't finish off that threat. He's a little too happy.

Sam barrels into them, ginormous arms wrapping around both of them to squeeze tightly before letting go. He’s grinning, hugely. His eyes are bright, but not in that crazed, flat way that Dean’s come to dread. "I'm so glad you're alive, man. I don’t know how, but I’m glad you are."

Dean might just start crying again, because Sam sounds so much like himself for the first time in ages, and Cas looks like he's been coated in startled joy and doesn't quite know what to do with it yet.

They don't move: Dean's over whatever PDA quibbles he might’ve had over Sam or Bobby for now. He’s kissed Cas in fucking _public_ , he's sure as hell not letting go now. Cas turns his head slightly to more fully face Sam, but he stays practically in Dean’s lap, their shoulders overlapping.

"Sam," Cas greets, warmly. "It's good to see you, too. How are you feeling?"

Sam ducks his head. "We think that last standoff burned through a lot of what I'd taken in the days before. I've started feeling the withdrawal, but so far I can tell, it's not _worse_ than the last time."

Something in Dean's body unclenches. The last time sucked, but they got through it. Sam's gonna be okay, eventually. They all will.

Sam pops closer once again, squeezes both of their shoulders, and backs away. "I'm really glad to see you guys, Bobby and I are gonna make some food... this is the last meal I'll keep down for a while, we think. You should join us when you can."

And with that, Sam disappears back out the door. But he leaves Cas's angel blade on the edge of the table. 

Dean parts them just long enough to pick it up and run his fingers along the surface—warm as blood, light and easy and comfortable against his fingers. Familiar. He turns and offers it to Cas.

Cas shakes his head and presses it back into Dean's hand, leaning back in. "I like that it protects you," he answers. "That was very sensitive of him." He sounds surprised. Pleased, though. Not that Dean can blame him, considering the reception he got the last time.

"Yeah, he's the sensitive brother," Dean grunts. He feels the smile Cas hides against his cheek. "D'you think you can stand to get back to the house? 'Cause, uh." Yeah, Dean's strong for his size, but he's pretty sure he can't carry Cas.

"I think so," Cas says, with a little sigh.

But he doesn't move.

"Okay?" Dean asks.

"I think I deserve a kiss, after everything," Cas says, primly.

Dean realizes that they haven't actually done that yet. Kissed. He does wonder if they'll be able to stop, but then Dean's stomach rumbles and he remembers how long it’s been since he's eaten anything more substantial than potato chips and Cas is basically as wobbly as a newborn kitten. So they're probably safe from what's been basically their occasional bouts of barely controlled sex.

Probably.

Dean kisses Cas's hairline, since that's the closest bit to his lips. Cas hums in approval but also grumbles about his choices.

He lifts his head and Dean cups his cheek, thumb stroking at the last of a bruise on his cheekbone that's slowly disappearing. Cas leans into the touch and smiles. "Hello, Dean."

Dean smiles back. He's getting used to smiling, again. "Hey, Cas."

They drift together until Dean feels the softest pressure of Cas's lips and sinks into the feeling, eyes closing as that bone-deep ache of connection finally finishes flaring back to life. It's not the same thing as when Cas deliberately touches that palm print, but there's a feeling like a broken bone finally sliding back into place, a click that trembles through Dean's entire being.

Cas makes a small noise against his lips that isn't a moan as much as a sigh, like he feels that they've slotted back into place, too. He turns into the kiss, nuzzling softly.

(It's not about sex. Well. Maybe. 'Cause the tip of Cas's tongue gently tapping against the seam of Dean's feels pretty freaking good.)

They both shudder when Cas's fingers start tracing up Dean's left sleeve.

"Hey," Dean murmurs. "None o' that, you wild man."

"I'm not looking to start anything," Cas protests, but he's smiling. His fingers pause on Dean's biceps, though.

"Pretty sure you said that the first time you touched that thing, and look what happened." Dean leans his forehead back against Cas's, and he's smiling, too.

"I'm sure I promised nothing of the sort at the time, Dean," Cas tells him, with a tiny smirk that tightens the corners of his eyes from entirely too close. "I was very, very much looking to start something then."

(Dean's afraid that Cas might be right about that.)

"Bad boy, religious studies major." Dean smiles. "I think you've got the cliche wrong."

Cas's fingers inch upwards. "I don't like to be labeled."

Dean should stop him, he really should, but he's really not going to. But there won't be sex. Neither of them are up for sex and Dean is not going to call in Sam and Bobby to help haul them _both_ back into the house.

Instead, Dean leans in again to capture Cas into another slow, mostly chaste kiss. Cas's fingers make contact with the handprint between one breath and the next. 

Time freezes. They're suspended together in a brief instant of something bright and hot and pure, a connection that spreads down to their toes and up to the tops of their heads. It burns away the last of the frost still clinging to them and the veil over every single one of Dean’s senses finally lifts again.

Dean feels like that night nearly three days ago now, warm and sated and perfectly balanced.

The moment ends. Cas takes his hand away.

Dean breathes for the first time since the convent, and Cas smiles brightly. Dean’s injuries aren’t healed, but there’s a certain sharp bite that’s no longer there. The sneaky bastard.

"Remember when that used to wig you out?" Dean asks, with a chuckle, gesturing with his chin at his shoulder. "Y'know. That being there."

(It doesn’t seem to be a good time to point out that it looks like Cas _doesn’t_ have to make Dean come in his pants every time he puts his fingers on the handprint. He has a feeling that Cas would just take that as a challenge.)

"I am getting the impression that you and I remember that night very differently," Cas answers, dryly. Or trying for dry, and ending up in a little bolt of joyful laughter. He lightly taps the center of the handprint with a gentle finger, and Dean's whole body twitches into it in that way he's never going to get used to. "Also, I had spent the better part of my life convinced you were a very amazing figment of my imagination."

Cas still has a few streaks of dried blood on his face, but the bruises are gone. His lips are full and whole. When he shifts on the table to swing his legs over the edge, he's moving easily, gracefully again.

"I _am_ amazing," Dean agrees. Cas rolls his eyes. "And I dunno about you, but I like my memories of that night," Dean continues. Then he grins, pleased. "I get the feeling you'll be wearing my clothes again, today, these ones are pretty wrecked."

He's aware that Cas's grace is at a low ebb, but it's back. Dean can feel it in the way they're touching, that little rub of electricity that tingles in his fingertips. All it would take is a snap of Cas's fingers to put his outfit back to the way it was. They've had the whole buttons-flying-off conversation.

Cas doesn't say anything about the clothes situation, though. Maybe, maybe, he's just as pleased at the idea of wearing Dean's clothes as Dean is about seeing him in them.

Cas just smiles, and holds out a hand so Dean can help him hop off the table.

"Is it time to go have awkward family dinner?" Cas asks. "I think I'm hungry."

Dean takes his hand and then wraps an arm around Cas’s waist as he steadies himself on his own two feet. Once they’re sure his knees will hold him, Dean lets go and starts to lead them out of the shed. "Oh yeah," Dean says, "this is gonna be all sorts of fun." He pauses briefly to raise an eyebrow at Cas. "Beware of Sam, the question asker. Get that kid excited about something and you practically have to hog-tie him to get him to shut up."

Cas just smiles. "I look forward to it."

They arrive at the table still holding hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ami:** Well. See? We got there. Though I admit that the creative cursing in the comments for ch 15 did sustain us through a cold weekend. One more to go, we're pretty excited to be finishing this little project as scheduled.


	17. Chapter 17

The past six months have been the most surreal in Dean Winchester’s life, and all of that came _after_ icing Lilith.

Dean still gets creeped out by the entire, healthy-looking, fully-decorated Christmas tree the Novak house has had up for two full weeks. He can smell it throughout the house, every time he turns around, and it took a while before he felt comfortable going near it, because it has all sorts of glass ornaments on it to go with the clothespin reindeers and glittery pipe cleaner people that Claire made in school. (Dean’s pretty fucking good with a glue gun, if he says so himself. Claire got in trouble for saying that her Uncle Cassie’s “useless with the art stuff,” though.)

Or maybe it’s the presents piled under it that freak him out? He spots his own small pile of gifts, carefully selected for each person in the house. Dean might actually be more nervous about that than anything else. Cas’s three silk ties sit there in a small box, looking completely inadequate for how he feels. How do people even buy gifts anyway? And then the agony of just waiting days and days to know if you screwed up? Normal people. Dean shakes his head.

The Christmas lights in the house are subdued, other than those on the tree, and most of the decorations involve evergreen boughs and golden baubles. A few big shiny ribbons are pinned up in places. Cas told him that they'd even cut back on some of the holiday junk after Dean's near-panic attack at the full Thanksgiving Special, as it had been called, that Jimmy and Amelia tended to put on. They'd been especially thankful this year too, because of Cas.

Dean's staring at the tree, still sort of waiting for it to attack, when Jimmy passes in front of him and offers him two pieces of mail.

"’Deanna Novak?’" Jimmy asks, shaking his head and chuckling. "Still? Haven't you fixed that yet?"

"Three times," Cas reports, grouchily, from his spot over on the couch. He's grading the last of his papers before Sam shows up tonight. Because he’s the kind of professor who grades his own papers rather than having a teaching assistant do it—Dean had no idea that any of this was a thing, but Sam sounded surprised when Dean mentioned it.

Dean's still having moments over having an actual mailing address that's not a P.O. Box in some podunk town. Also, he's fairly sure that it's the Religious Studies department secretary—yeah, ‘administrative assistant,’ okay—who keeps 'fixing it.' He's not petty enough to say so, though. It's _Dean’s_ ring Cas is wearing on his finger.

"Are you _sure_ that the department secretary doesn't have the hots for you?" Dean asks.

(Okay, shit, he's totally petty enough to say so.)

Cas leans his head back over the edge of the couch, peering at Dean upside-down. He still manages to look puzzled. "I'm very sure. My sexual orientation is very well-known. Especially now."

Dean snorts, and Cas frowns. Yeah, that still goes to show that as much as Cas has been human, he doesn't get shit about human nature sometimes.

Amelia's the one who giggles. "So what you're saying, Dean, is Jimmy shouldn't visit Cassie at work?" she calls, through the open door of the kitchen.

"Might overload her brain," Dean agrees. "Though I'm sure she'd consider it a heck of a Christmas gift."

The way both of the twins tip their heads at Dean is enough to get him laughing, too.

Claire comes bouncing out of her room, hyped up on nothing but hoopla and Christmas cheer. She ricochets off his hip with a “Hi!” like she didn’t just see him at brunch—because the Novaks are the kind of family that have weekend brunch—before darting into the kitchen. 

He smiles after her. Dean's getting used to her, just like she's getting used to Dean. Sometimes, he can't believe Jimmy and Amelia let him into their home in the first place, much less let him stay for six solid months, and Claire is the reason why.

Amelia allows her a small sample of food before sending her on her way into the living room where Dean once patched up her dad. Dean's getting used to the kids’ cartoons spending at least 50% of the time on the nearest television too. 

(Cas, it turns out, loves Looney Tunes. Go figure. Though everyone, but everyone, stared at him when he started commenting on how Road Runner represents God, and Wil. E. Coyote represents man endlessly chasing the divine. It took about thirty seconds before Cas’s expression cracked and he started laughing at the lot of them. Goddamned angel.)

Dean looks down at the envelopes in his hands. The top one is indeed addressed to Deanna Novak, but that's just department spouse mail. (Yeah, being a spouse on a form anywhere is still also weird.) The second letter is also from the university, but it's addressed properly, to Dean Novak.

That's who Dean is here. That's who he's gonna be when he's not hunting. He'll always be a Winchester, and Sam and Bobby will always be his family, but Dean thinks he’s pretty much done with being Dean Winchester when he doesn't have to be. 

Dean Winchester can't imagine a life without hunting. Truthfully, Dean Novak can't really either, but he's not afraid of time off in the same way.

Dean’s set up a beach umbrella, now. It was a lot harder than he thought; who knew that the damned things had to be screwed into the sand, and the deep layer of the sand had to be firm enough to support it without it blowing away? In the end, after they got giggled at by some kids, their mom came over and gave them a hand. He and Sam set up the beach chairs under it, and Cas lugged over the cooler. It had Coronas and cut limes inside. 

They pushed them into the neck of the bottles and, solemnly, drank. And Cas managed to trip over a sandcastle because he was staring so hard at Dean’s marked shoulder. One of the kids asked how he got it before his mom could shush him, but Dean answered, ‘I got in trouble and someone who liked me pulled me out.’

He got sunburnt and warmth-drunk, dug his toes into the sand and then had to figure out how to get the little granules out of every last damned thing. That night, Cas kissed all of his new, darkened freckles. Then did it again, for good measure.

Dean's not afraid of the future. Not even now that it’s exploded with possibilities that Dean can’t even begin to name, let alone really understand. (Christmas trees, though: those, he’s still afraid of.)

The second envelope is from the registrar. Dean took one class this semester, one hand-chosen by Cas. Something about the modern American novel. The essays were a steep curve, but the rest? Much easier than Dean ever expected. And he _liked_ the assigned reading. Dean never really had the chance to read things like The Great Gatsby and Their Eyes were Watching God before… though he’s still not sure he enjoys Hemingway. (And he swatted Cas when Cas asked, innocently, “Too many similarities?” Dean just knows a total asshole when he reads one.)

"What class did you decide to take for spring semester?" Cas asks, oh-so-innocently, with his head turned back to his essays. He squints at one of them, bringing it closer to his nose. "Hm. I'm not sure about this analysis."

It's possible that Cas is reading Dean's mind again. He swears he can't really do that, but Dean is pretty sure that sometimes, he's a lying angel who lies. Dean already knows that the good boy thing is a complete act under some situations.

Dean chooses to ignore the first question—because he still hasn't admitted to Cas that he snuck into the Latin placement exam, just to kind of see what there was to see. No one was more surprised than Dean when he placed into third year Latin, because what the fuck? Dean _knows_ he didn’t learn that much Latin when he was running around killing demons and memorizing exorcisms…

Instead, he wanders over and sits down next to Cas. He moves over one of the red-and-green throw pillows decorated with a plush gold ribbon (Cas couldn’t answer him what they’re for, exactly) so he doesn’t crush the ribbon before slinging an arm happily over his shoulders. Cas wobbles just a little sideways into him before straightening. 

"It's cheating if you're basing that off actual knowledge of what Jesus was like, sweetheart," Dean points out, craning his nose over to look at the paper Cas is marking up with a purple gel pen that he probably stole from Claire. Sometimes Cas’s kids write about interesting things. Sometimes he thinks they really need a good kick in the reality.

"Well, I never met Mohammed, so I can't exactly have an opinion about him from that standpoint," Cas answers, dryly, writing “Judeo-Christian assumption!” in the margin with an aggressive flourish of his pen

Dean snickers and marvels at the very idea that an Angel of the Lord (Cas argues he's more an Angel of the Righteous Man, now, but Dean's uncomfortable with that comparison unless sex is involved) is sitting quietly on a couch in middle America, contentedly grading grad school papers.

Then again, Dean hasn't hunted anything in over four months. And even that was an accident that he and Cas tripped over while Cas was authenticating some old book that was at an estate sale. They agreed it should be taken care of as long as they were there, because no small town deserves a djinn. On the whole, Dean’s not looking for hunts anymore, and that's also a little crazy for him.

He wonders if Sam had these feelings when he went off to Stanford. He's not gonna ask, though; they've already had far too many heart-to-hearts in the last six months, and Dean can only take so much bonding before he starts getting hives.

Speaking of, there's a knock at the door. Someone's early. Maybe Sam actually convinced Bobby to come along? Spending Thanksgiving at the salvage yard was, well… it was less terrifying than the Novak pre-Thanksgiving party insanity that they threw when Bobby won the coin toss to have them over for the holiday itself. But it was also just sorta nice, and Dean wouldn’t mind seeing the grouchy old coot again sooner than planned.

"I got it!" Dean answers, unwrapping himself from around Cas and leaving his mail, unopened, next to Cas's papers. He'll look at it later. The idea of getting fucking _grades_ when he's thirty freakin’ years old shouldn't freak him out, but he worked damned hard in that class. Just as hard as he’s worked at the little mechanic pick-up side gig he's got going. They didn’t look too hard at his paperwork, and even if they’re not paying him much, it’s still honest work. Dean just didn't feel right living in the Novaks' house without contributing something.

But when he opens the door, it's a familiar face standing there and looking at him.

It's not Sammy. It's not—

 _Adam Milligan_ stares at him from the doorstep, hand still up to knock. Adam, their lost little brother. Adam, who's dead, who's been dead, and never even knew he had brothers.

There's no grave dirt on him.

He's wearing a _suit_. 

And even if Dean hadn't _felt_ the sudden buzz, like bees landing on his skin and just about to sting, the cold lack of understanding in the kid's blue eyes would've clinched it.

The old hot hunter blood hits his system so fast Dean doesn't feel like it ever left. But he doesn't carry a gun anymore. He doesn't even carry a knife. For the first time in his life, Dean Winchester roars to the front and vaults right over Dean Novak, and he feels completely fucking _naked_.

So he does the only thing he can think of.

He swings. Left-handed.

Adam, or whatever's wearing him as a meat suit, doesn't even think to move, but as Dean’s fist connects with a sharp crack, he rocks back on his heels, taking one little step backwards. And he does look awfully surprised that Dean's punch managed to move him at all.

Not-Adam touches his nose, wide-eyed, looking surprised at the blood Dean's drawn. And Dean’s hand throbs like he just broke a finger.

Fuck.

From behind him, Dean feels Cas shove the hilt of his angel blade into his other hand. Cas can still hide his knife in some sort of multidimensional neverending pocket of a sleeve he wears. The cold metal of it brushes Dean’s thigh.

"Michael," Cas growls. There’s more than a little angel intonation echoing behind it. "You weren't invited."

Dean stares at the walking body of his dead half-brother standing on the Merry Xmas welcome mat, and does a little math. " _Michael?_ ” he spits. “The junkless asshole who wanted me as a meat puppet in the apocalypse?"

The fucking _archangel?_ Oh, shit.

Cas steps up next to him, calm and still on the surface, but underneath, full of pent-up energy that Dean can feel vibrating between them even though they’re not touching. "That was our assumption, yes," he agrees, coldly, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Michael. His left hand comes up and rests on the small of Dean’s back.

Michael is staring at them, back and forth, and his eyes come to rest just behind Dean’s navel in a way that makes Dean think he’s looking _through_ Dean, not into him. It’s not a comfortable feeling. Especially not since Dean has a pretty good idea what he’s looking at: Cas has possessively fiddled with the area often enough that there’s pretty much no doubt where Cas’s name is most prominently stamped on Dean’s bones.

Michael starts to lift his arms up, palms open. Beside Dean, Cas goes whipcord-tense, and his arm jerks off Dean’s back and forward just enough that Dean all-too-sure he’s going to try and shove Dean behind him. 

No fucking way. Dean flicks out a foot and kicks his ankle. 

“Ouch,” Cas mumbles, but he backs down.

"I... see,” Michael murmurs. “From what I had heard, the host did have a habit of underestimating you two." He slowly puts his hands down. Cas doesn’t relax, though, so neither does Dean. "Myself included."

All three of them stare at each other. Dean's peripherally aware that he can’t hear Jimmy, Amelia and Claire in the main area of the house anymore, so Cas must have relocated them into the panic room quickly, before he came to the door. If dinner gets burnt because of this asshole, Dean's stabbing him right here, neighbors be damned.

Then again, Dean just did punch the guy in the face. And considering that's knocked back more than a few angels and it just barely bloodied this dude's nose, well, Dean is not liking this situation at all.

"You're not welcome here, brother," Cas says, really fucking calmly for the fact he seems to be addressing an _archangel_. "Please leave."

Speaking of not liking this situation. Dean grits out, "And you've got some goddamned nerve showin' up in Adam's body like that. Couldn't be bothered to help him out in life, and now you're gonna wear him around while he's dead?" Hell, if they're gonna get smote he might as well get out everything he needs to say now. Cas's hand twines into his left, the one that's not holding the angel blade. He squeezes, but it feels like solidarity, not a warning.

Michael blinks, twice, his mouth opening a little and then staying like that, like he has no idea what to do with this hostility. Probably he doesn't. 

Dean doesn't know if their angel warding is going to hold, but if they can just get Jimmy's family out of here, he and Cas can... shit, Dean doesn’t know what they can do, but if they can get the rest of the Novaks out of the line of fire, that’s enough. That’ll have to be enough. After that, if Dean’s gonna go out, it’ll be fighting, and back to back with Cas.

He might be a Novak now, but he’s still a Winchester, after all.

Michael looks down at Adam's slender hands, wiggling the fingers like he’s feeling them out. "I thought that bringing him back to life would be adequate repayment for the temporary use of his body as a vessel,” he murmurs, frowning. “Was I incorrect?" He narrows his eyes a little. “No, Adam says that I’m correct.”

That stops Dean's mad like he just got hammered on the head. 

"Wait. He's alive?" he blurts. "In _there_?"

Also: ‘temporary’ use as a vessel? What the fuck does that mean? Adam’s gonna walk free at the end of this? He’s gonna drop dead again?

Michael frowns, and looks confused. For maybe a heartbeat, there’s something in it that’s weirdly childlike, like when Claire asks why she can’t have her dessert before dinner. "Where else would he be? It's his body."

Dean crosses his arms, very clearly displaying the blade in his hand. He suspects it won't kill Michael (he and Cas haven’t talked much about archangels, but if an angel blade won’t kill the first demon, it probably won’t do much against one of Heaven’s badasses). But it'd be plenty of distraction while one of them runs for the scythe in their bedroom. "I got the impression you angels aren't huge fans of us mud monkeys, let alone our individual safeties, if it serves your purpose."

Michael has the grace to wince slightly at that. "Dean Winchester, you coaxed a seraph of Heaven to fall for you.” He nods an acknowledgement towards Cas. “You and yours, two humans and a fallen apostate, killed Lilith without breaking the last Seal of prophecy—all with Heaven and Hell actively hunting you, and attempting to facilitate your failure. It should have been impossible. All of this should have been impossible. If nothing else, it has shown me how many of us may have... misjudged humanity."

Dean's curious if Heaven knows if and how Death helped them, but he's not willing to ask. And, from what Dean has seen of the guy, if they know any better, neither are they. 

"Misjudged?" He snorts. "Aren't you a peach?"

Cas reaches out and rests a hand lightly on Dean’s hip—it seems to be mostly as a comfort, and maybe to settle Dean down a little before they really do get their asses struck down by divine lightning. "May we speak to Adam?" he asks.

Dean blinks. He’s learning more about angels and their vessels today than he has in the year and more since he’s been kind of _angel-married_ to one.

Michael appears surprised by the request, but not offended. He dips his chin, just barely. Then his eyes flare blue and his chin sags, only to lift back up with a shy, shaky smile on his lips. "Uh. Hey, guys? Dean, right?"

Okay, Dean didn't expect that. Wait, the angels can swap in and out like that?!

He shoots a slightly-panicked and slightly-betrayed glance at Cas. Shit, he wasn't ready to meet the little half-brother they didn't even know they had the first time, what the hell makes anyone think he's ready to do it now?!

Cas doesn’t look all that apologetic. In fact, his eyes narrow—just slightly. Well? he seems to be saying.

"Uh. I. Yeah, uh, I'm... Dean," Dean says, and he almost drops the angel blade. Almost. He thinks this could be a trick, but Cas doesn't seem to think so. And since Cas is pretty much the only trustworthy angel he knows, what Cas says about the dickless winged ones pretty much goes. "Fuck. Are you really… you okay, kid?" ‘Cause really, that’s what matters, right?

“Yeah.” Adam shifts back and forth on his feet. And the whole body language is different. It's like looking between Cas and Jimmy. Michael kept his shoulders back, his chin up, and he was just... _still_ in that slightly creepy way of most angels. Adam shuffles. He glances. He says, "I... um. Wow. I didn't know you existed. John never, uh, yeah."

John. Hell. Dean's teeth clench. Does the kid even know that John Winchester is dead? Does he have any idea how Dean and Sam were raised? How they didn't have holidays or birthday parties or baseball games, 'cause the hunt came first and all else was a distraction?

But Dean _does_ have those things now. And, hell, would he have even wanted any of that anyway? Dean doesn’t regret the way he lived his life—the family business. He doesn’t regret the people he saved. He doesn’t regret those hours on highways getting to know Baby’s purr, and the sound of Sam and Bobby laughing over weird freaky lore.

And if it weren't for the life, he'd never have found Cas, either.

"How much do you know now?" Cas asks, gently, when Dean can't get words out. "Do you know who we are?"

"The guys who saved the world, I guess?" Adam answers, a little hesitant, a little shy. "I, uh, don't know what to make of that."

Dean snorts. "You and me both, kid." He wags a finger at him. "The way they tell it," he gestures at the sky, "it was probably some grand battle or some bullshit.” Dean knows this for a fact, because Michael isn’t the first angel who’s shown up at their doorstep. There’s a reason they have angel warding. Cas was not impressed. “But that wasn’t it. Sure, saving the world was a bonus, but at the end of the day? I really wanted to save my baby brother."

Adam shoves his hands in his pockets. "I can sort of get that,” he says. Dean thinks he might sound a little wistful. But Dean also knows the kid didn’t grow up with brothers, with any family but his mom. “I think.”

"There's a lot you probably don't know about all this bullshit," Dean warns him. "And most of it’s bloody and ugly. If I had my choice, I'd leave you out of the life completely.” He rethinks that for a second, though, because the fact is: Adam was never a part of the life, and it got him killed anyway. He shakes his head, ruefully, and studies him. “But considering you can house an archangel, I guess that's just a pipe dream."

Adam shrugs, but doesn't comment on it.

"You got any idea what he wants?" Dean asks.

"With you?" Adam asks. "No. With me? I think… I get the idea he just wants to spend some time on Earth? With humans. He's… recently taken an interest in them again, apparently."

Dean turns just enough to meet Cas's eyes. Cas's eyebrows are up. "Michael hasn't walked on Earth since the first vertebrate crawled out of the ocean," he observes.

"Well, he's walking now," Dean notes. He opens his mouth and closes it. If they were gonna be smacked down in light and fire, Dean thinks that they would have already. Not that Dean cares jack-shit for propriety, but they should probably get the rest of the Novaks outta the panic room if there isn't gonna be blood and angel wings.

"I... didn't think he actually knew anything about humanity," Cas continues on.

For the first time, Adam smiles. He doesn't look anything like Dean or Sam. It's fucking crazy. "I don't think he does," the kid admits. "But he seems okay, I guess. I think he's just curious about you guys. In a way that's sort of weird and stiff. Like my biochemistry teacher."

The noise that Cas makes in response to that is higher-pitched than Dean thought his voice could go. Okay, so maybe Cas isn't as unshaken about this archangel-on-doorstep thing as he's pretending to be.

Dean makes an executive decision, and not just because someone really needs to go in and turn the oven down if this goes on much longer. "Okay kid. Uh, Sam's coming by later. If you're still… awake, or around, or whatever, you should come out and talk."

Adam nods and Dean's gotta hand it to him, he looks pretty serene, all things considered. Michael must at least be relatively polite to his meat suits. And he did let Adam out without so much as blinking.

Michael comes back in a muted flash of blue. "I mean you and your family no harm, little brother, Winchester,” he states, with that weird formality of his again. “I just thought we should speak, to put the last of this to rest, I suppose."

Dean looks at Cas. They have a small argument without any words—Dean doesn’t like it, but he’ll hear him out; Cas doesn’t like it, but he’s not sure they have a choice—but in the end, Cas shrugs and nods. He disappears inside, and a few seconds later, Dean feels the prickle of the angel wards going down. "They're going back up as soon as you're gone,” he warns, “but maybe there’ll be a pass for good behavior if we like what we hear."

Michael inclines his head—the body language is _completely_ not Adam, or maybe it's just the fact that Dean can feel that prickle of power on the back of his skin again. It gives Dean the creeps. "Thank you," he says.

Since Michael's also only the second angel Dean's ever heard say those words, and Dean's sort of _married_ to the other one, that makes him blink.

Michael is watching him keenly, though, with an intensity that Dean definitely does not like, when he steps in the doorway. "Oh. Very interesting. I see," he says, almost to himself. He raises an open palm towards Dean’s chest.

Dean's hackles go back up and he takes a step back, raising the completely fucking useless angel blade between them. But Cas is in front of him, standing between Dean and his big-ass brother, faster than Dean realized he could still move.The rush of Cas's quiet little power flares hot and bright, tingling along Dean’s shoulder.

"Do not," Cas says, tightly, "touch him."

"I mean neither of you any harm," Michael repeats, and he looks about as bothered by Cas in battle stance as he looked by Dean holding an angel blade on him. "I only thought the grace in him is interesting." His gaze leaves Dean and fixes on Cas with just that same intensity. "Did you know you're acquiring a soul, little brother?" He squints. “A tiny little thing.”

Dean's head swivels to Cas, whose shoulders have locked up. He’s looking just about anywhere except at Dean. Oh, yeah. He knew.

"It had occurred to me," Cas admits. "Based on some of the... experiences I had. I just wasn't sure such a thing was possible."

Michael looks at him. "It shouldn't be, not with this much grace in the mix, but I suppose I should get used to things like that." He takes a step back, probably as a courtesy "Though you might keep out of Fate's way for a while. She's quite… miffed at you derailing all of her plans like that."

Cas snorts—again, slightly higher-pitched than normal. The two angels stare at each other for a long moment that should be throwing literal sparks into the space between them before Cas finally relaxes and steps back, tugging Dean back gently at the elbow.

"I invite you inside my home in peace," Castiel intones. It’s got a ceremonial quality to Dean's ears.

Michael must hear it, too, because he looks vaguely surprised, but he just says, “‘When a stranger sojourns with you in your land, you shall not do him wrong.’”

Cas huffs a near-silent laugh. “Not the first time someone’s described my home as a strange land.”

Once inside, Dean's the one who volunteers to grab the rest of the Novaks because he's just not ready to be alone with Adam and/or Michael. They shuffle out of the panic room, and Dean updates them on the situation in a whisper. (Yeah, he knows that Michael and Cas can both hear him. That really fucking isn’t the point.)

“Your _brother_?” Amelia breathes, crossing herself. “I thought… oh, Dean. It’s a miracle, isn’t it?”

“It’s… um. So complicated,” Dean admits.

Jimmy’s the one who mutters, “‘Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some have unwittingly entertained angels.’" Dean’s not really sure who he’s saying it to.

Cas snorts half a laugh at that. Michael doesn’t seem to find it funny, and sort of cocks his head.

(Yeah.)

Dean’s pretty sure this is going to be obnoxiously awkward, but then Amelia, who rolls with this shit far faster than anyone should, offers Michael a plate of the cookies that were just starting to brown to golden in the oven.

Michael reaches out and takes one. He looks at it like he's not sure what to do with it, but he finally says, "Thank you."

Dean thinks that Amelia maybe just doesn't get that this is the actual _archangel Michael_ , but then she asks, politely, "If you have your sword I'd ask that you leave it outside or make it go away. We don't allow weapons around Claire."

(Cas's knife has already vanished. As a general rule, he doesn’t piss off Amelia.)

Michael says, after a long, tense pause, "Oh. It's incorporeal."

Amelia hmphs, but then she vanishes back into the kitchen.

"They're homemade," Cas's little niece says, yanking hard on Michael’s sleeve and pointing at the cookie like this is really important. She scowls at him like she’s annoyed she has to explain this again. "You have to eat it. While it's warm. That's what makes it special."

(It _is_ important to her. Her eyes got so big the first time she heard that Dean had never had a homemade cookie, and Dean thought she might cry. And then he honestly, with a little bit of panic, thought that Jimmy and Amelia might kick him the fuck out of their home for making their kid goddamned _cry_ over _cookies_.)

Of course, when Dean finally tried the damn, still-warm-from-the-oven cookie, he almost cried himself. Fuck, he never got what all the fuss was about fresh-baked cookies before that moment. That was some awesome melted chocolate and baked flour and sugar all in one combo.

"You might have to roll some of your grace back," Cas says mildly. "Archangels might not have the same problem with food and molecules as us lesser-ranked brethren, but I don't think it's something solved without a little tweaking."

Michael looks at the cookie, nods at Castiel, closes his eyes briefly, and then nibbles carefully at the edge. Dean's actually fascinated to watch a being experience chocolate for the first time. Next to him, Cas feels like a little bundle of hysterics whenever they touch, because the Archangel Michael just started smiling in unabashed delight. He exclaims, “Hm!” and takes another bite.

Dean tugs Cas a few feet away. "Doing okay there, champ?"

"Possibly having an out-of-body experience," Cas mutters.

Dean can't help it. He leans in and murmurs into Cas's ear, "And we're not even having sex, huh. That _is_ disconcerting."

Michael says, with interest, "You have intercourse? Really."

(Asshole is not even pretending he's not listening.)

Dean looks around a little wildly to make sure Claire has vacated the premises, because _Jesus fuck_ , but she ran off as soon as Michael bit the cookie. He guesses that she lost interest as soon as he showed he was gonna do the right thing with it.

"You're both vasodilating very significantly," Michael adds.

"Blushing," Cas translates for Dean. Because they are. Yup, both of them. Shit.

Since Dean wants to talk about their sex life with Cas's big brother about as much as he wants to talk about it with _Sammy_ , answering this one is gonna be all on Cas.

Michael gets a distant look, then adds, "Adam has informed me that what I said was very rude. But also funny. I apologize."

Well, Adam suddenly feels a _lot_ more like a little brother, so there's that. Also the fact that Michael appears to be letting Adam peer out over his shoulder is a point in his favor.

Cas is gently banging his head against Dean's shoulder, though. "He's going to ask me questions," he whispers. "I know it."

Dean does not laugh. Barely.

Amelia, the saint that she is, lures Michael into the kitchen. After his taste of warm chocolate-chip cookie, he appears intrigued, and goddamn, Jimmy better know how awesome a wife he bagged. Because Amelia is really fucking awesome.

Sam shows up right on time, which makes Dean suspect he was parked around the corner waiting for the clock to tick over. The first thing they do is hug. Dean misses his baby brother more than he can say. It's been difficult just being away from each other, even though they both sort of admitted it's probably a good idea. Cas gets the next hug, Sam practically engulfing him with his ginormous arms.

That's when Dean realizes there's an awkward archangel in the room, standing completely still in the corner and waiting to be mentioned. Introduced. Whatever. "Ah, Sammy? So. We've got an extra for dinner."

Sam narrows his eyes. "Are you trying to set me up or something? Because that's not cool."

Dean almost sputters. Okay, it's not like Jimmy _hasn't_ mentioned something about that a time or two… or ten... but both Cas and Dean vetoed it. Dean would have been sort of insulted that Jimmy's okay with the idea of setting Sam up when he was so against _Dean_ , in the beginning, but, well, Sam's the smarter one, the better catch, and—probably most importantly, as far as Jimmy’s concerned—not out to date Jimmy's little brother.

(That third date, by the way, was really fucking awesome. Mm-mm—)

"Dean," Cas says, in a tiny, pinched voice, "I should inform you that Michael might be able to read your mind."

Oh, _goddammit._

"No," Michael says, not unkindly. "His grace is shielding him. It's very strange." He sounds intrigued.

Dean opens his mouth to protest that it's not _his_ grace, it's Cas's, but Sam's mouth has already dropped open. He stripped off all weapons at the door, the way they all do, but one hand has automatically gone for his hip and just kind of stuck there. "Adam?" he squeezes out. "What the—"

"No. I'm Michael. You are Samuel," Michael says. "The cursed one. Adam says hello."

Oh, yeah, this is gonna go real peachy.

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. "Okay. Cas, you explain to _your_ brother why what he just said isn't cool, and I'll explain to _my_ brother why we haven't all gone insane by inviting an archangel into the house."

He pulls Sam aside firmly, and gives him the rundown. Sam at first looks pissed, then intrigued, and then kind of delighted—at the Adam part, that is.

"I mean… Dean, if it’s real, I don’t think it could get better than this. I trust you guys," Sam says when Dean's done. God, even after six months, that's still such a good thing to hear after that year of lies and bullshit.

Michael graciously allows Adam out for dinner. "I can experience foods just as well with Adam in control, but I suspect he would appreciate the…" he looks around the room, mostly curiosity on his face as he brushes his finger across one of Amelia’s fancy place settings, "family nature of the proceedings."

That's when Dean remembers that the kid is basically an orphan. Okay, apparently he's adopted now.

He can see the emotion flickering loudly across Adam's face over dinner, 'cause the kid hasn't learned how to pack that shit away yet. Maybe he never will learn it. Actually, he probably never will, since he doesn't get to grow up with the family business.

Or, maybe, doesn't _have_ to grow up with the family business.

He looks a little overwhelmed, though, and Dean can't blame him. He just got himself two half-brothers, a brother-in-law, and Jimmy, Claire, and Amelia in the bargain. Plus the archangel riding his ass. It's a lot. Hell, it's a lot for _Dean_ , still, some days, and he _lives here_.

Dean smiles a little ruefully at him and pokes the basket of dinner rolls in his direction. “Pot roast’s awesome today,” he tells Amelia, on his second serving. “You gotta show me how you do it.”

Amelia chuckles. “Yours was good,” she points out.

Dean scoffs and points his fork at the way all the onions in hers have melted into the thick, savory broth, and the carrots still have just the tiniest bit of crisp to them rather than becoming mushy the way Dean’s did by the time the roast itself was tender. “Wasn’t like this, though.”

Sam stares. “You… cook?” he asks Dean.

Amelia and Dean both roll their eyes at him.

Claire scowls at Sam. God, she really does look so much like Cas at his grumpiest when she does that. “Don’t you know Uncle Dean _at all_?” she demands, with all the intense judgment of the third-grader she is. “What kind of brother are you, anyway?”

(Cas excuses himself from the table at the expressions on Sam’s and Claire’s faces, but yes, Dean can still feel him laughing in the bathroom.)

Adam has two helpings of dessert, though: cookies and vanilla ice cream with a pour of “Claire’s” homemade fudge. (It’s unsweetened bar chocolate melted and mixed into condensed milk, but the kid makes it herself, and it’s really damned good.) Amelia looks like she's going to put a third cookie on his plate if no one stops her, so Dean offers to do dishes and wash pots to get her attention off the kid.

It's after Claire goes up to bed—complaining the whole way that she's not tired, and having to be escorted by both her parents—that Sam asks Adam about the things Dean's been contemplating, too.

"What kind of help do you need?" Sam asks. "To, you know... um, not be dead. Come back from the dead?" He smiles, crooked and rueful and so familiar that it makes Dean twinge with missing him, even though he's right here. "We, uh, the three of us kind of have a lot of experience with that.”

Dean snorts and crosses his arms. In one way, Cas had it easiest of all of them: he was never actually declared dead. What they didn’t know, though, was that while they were off stopping the end of the world, Jimmy put in all the paperwork with the university to make like Cas was on “research sabbatical” from his job, because the two of them had been forging each other’s signatures since they were teenagers. Cas’s big brother always, _always_ thought he’d be coming home someday. For all that Dean and Jimmy don’t always get along, still, he’ll probably always be grateful to the guy for that.

Adam frowns. “You mean… even before the, um, apocalypse thing?”

Sam laughs, “Uh… that’s… wow, that’s a very long story. Anyway, are you planning to, um… go back to school? I really doubt Michael has any idea what kind of bureaucracy life entails." 

Adam crinkles his nose. “I really don’t want to ask him. Sometimes when he talks about Heaven… yeah.”

Cas's laugh is even more rueful. "He might understand," he answers. "But celestial bureaucracy doesn't involve paperwork. Somehow, that makes it worse."

Dean really doesn't want to know. "Well," he shrugs. "We, uh…” he trails off. Telling a non-hunter that they burned both his and his mom’s bodies, so there’s not likely to be a death report or investigation about that, just doesn’t sound like a good idea, even if the kid does have an archangel inside him. “We couldn’t stick around to find out, but there’s a good chance there might only be a missing persons case out on you. Explaining your disappearance and your mom's non-reappearance might be hard, but it's easier than if there was any real proof you'd died."

Sam nods, already propping open his laptop. "It's your assets that might take longer. They don't like freeing those up without a boat load of paperwork. We'll help, of course, but you might need an actual lawyer... oh!" Sam looks up, his expression interested. “You were premed, right? Did they take your fingerprints for any of your volunteer stuff? That would help a lot…”

Adam starts to look overwhelmed at the mention of ‘premed,’ and Dean kicks Sam's shin to tell him to back off.

“S’okay,” he says, and stands up to go rummaging through one of the locked cabinets in the living room. “You’ve got time.” Dean pulls out one of the cheap flip phones that Dean used to carry around a half dozen of, and pops in the battery. He checks to make sure it’s got the right numbers in it, and adds in Cas’s, pulling out the charger from the box where it’s rubber-banded into a neat coil. “This is for you. Not for… you know, you.” He rings a halo around his head with a finger. Cas makes an annoyed, deep noise, but he nods a tiny nod at Dean. They get each other: the bill on this phone’ll get paid every month up until they hear differently. “You call whenever, okay?”

“Yeah,” Adam says, and takes the phone. “Thanks.”

Sam nods over his shoulder, at Dean. He’ll look out for him.

Adam's family, now, too. Considering his joyrider, in more ways than one, apparently.

Michael reappears. He looks contemplative when he nods to Dean and then wanders off side-by-side with Cas, who’s already looking more pinched (and more like Jimmy) than normal. Possibly he’s already anticipating Michael asking him all sorts of embarrassing questions. Yep, Dean is going to enjoy hearing about that later.

It's just him and Sam left in the living room. Jimmy and Amelia haven’t come back down after seeing Claire off to bed, so Dean suspects they kindly slipped away after the cleanup to leave the Winchesters to their business. It's appreciated.

"So," Sam says. He wanders over to the lit-up Christmas tree, looking it up and down. It’s broader than Dean’s spread arms, and the star on the top brushes the ceiling: it took Dean, Jimmy and Cas to get it around the corners to put it into the living room, with Amelia “directing” (laughing). Claire learned a few new curse words that day. “Wow.”

Dean snorts. “Right?”

“Kind of terrifying.”

Thank God, someone gets it. “Yeah, _I know_!” Dean agrees, heartily. He keeps back his flinch as Sam starts poking through the evergreen’s branches. He’s pretty sure Sam’s not going to knock off any of the delicate glass ornaments: Sam’s gentle about it, for all his size.

Then Sam carefully takes something off one of the branches. It’s a little black car, made out of a matchbox painted with streaky black acrylic paint, with delicate glued-on cellophane windows and big white buttons for wheels. Like… actual moving wheels: the buttons are attached to a bamboo barbecue skewer stuck through the matchbox. It’s got a long golden ribbon to hang it from, and Claire painstakingly wrote “Baby” on the side in red glitter pen. It was her ‘thank you’ for him helping her make the other Christmas ornaments for her art class. 

“Uncle Cassie helped!” she told him. “That’s why the paint’s not smooth.”

(Dean did not fucking cry, okay? That glittery shit just gets everywhere.)

Sam raises an eyebrow that goes almost all the way into his hairline.

“Oh, uh… yeah, that… yeah. Just… shut up,” Dean mutters, feeling his cheeks start to heat up.

Sam chuckles, softly, but he hangs Baby back up on the tree. Carefully, Dean notices, touching it with a finger before he walks back to the couch to sit down. "This is what family is like?"

"Wellllll…" Dean makes a face. "Not sure where the archangel fits in. And the surprise visit from the long-dead relative who is also a half-brother is more out of Dr. Sexy than the Waltons, but… kind of. I guess?"

Sam looks around, brushing his fingers absently through his hair. His eyes pause in various places. Maybe it’s signs of family, signs of the holiday, who knows. Maybe it’s the framed picture of Dean and Cas, their arms around each other, on the mantelpiece, right next to one of Amelia’s and Jimmy’s wedding photos. "It seems like a lot."

Dean rolls his head back against the sofa and looks at the ceiling. "It is a lot."

When Sam turns his whole body towards Dean, swinging his legs over like the motion can't be seen from the Space Shuttle, Dean knows that there's going to be a serious set of 'We've gotta talk' incoming. He sighs. Just because this shit has gotten easier—the first time that he and Cas had a bad fight and weren't talking it was _physically painful,_ what the fuck—doesn't mean that Dean likes it any better.

But all Sam says is, "You seem happy."

It's such a weird thing for Sam to say that Dean's brain stalls on it for a second. Huh. Sam sure as shit didn't say anything like that the last time they saw each other, at Bobby's for Thanksgiving. Then again, they spent a lot of time that weekend teaching Cas to shoot a shotgun.

"Some days I'm bored as shit, and I don't know what the hell I'm doing," Dean says, honestly. "Domesticity is fucking scary, man."

Sam blinks, very slowly. "Uh."

Dean knots his fingers together in his lap and stares at them. "It’s just… staying in one place is hard sometimes, okay?” Dean still has moments where all he wants is to climb into Baby and just go. Just… _go._ But he can’t imagine it without Cas in the seat by him, not anymore. “And there's still a lot of things we're…" he stops, and shrugs. "There's questions I don't have the answers to that I used to think I'd always have the answers to."

Sam stares at him and then his face softens into some sort of emotion Dean is _very_ sure he doesn't want to deal with. "Hunting?"

"Hunting," Dean confirms. He spots the mail that he put down on the coffee table hours ago. He grabs that second envelope. "Also, other things."

He hands the big envelope to Sam.

Sam takes it, puzzled, and before he even looks down at it, smirks and asks, "Are you getting home shopping catalogs now, Dean? Because really—"

Dean flushes, growls, "Fuck you, bitch," and reaches out to grab it back.

Sam's arms are still freakishly long, and since Dean (probably) isn't gonna punch him in the Novak living room or toss him over the back of the sofa, he doesn't fight Sam for it too hard when Sam holds it away.

(Also, he's saving the fact that he probably can actually toss Sam over the back of the sofa, now, for a rainy day. The other day, he picked Cas right off the ground from a standing position, and not a thing about it hurt. He hasn't quite figured out how to tell Sam about that yet, 'cause, uh.)

Sam looks down at the envelope, frowning, and both eyebrows rise. "’Dean Novak?’" He blinks, twice, and turns to look Dean in the eye. His face is doing a really weird thing. "Wait... _Novak?_ "

That wasn't what Dean meant him to see, either, but... wait, Dean did tell him about that, right?

Oh, shit. Maybe he didn’t.

Dean runs a nervous hand through his hair. "Yeah. That's a thing we—I decided. When I'm here and not out there. Turns out, it's easier to figure out a new life if you've got a name that's never been on the FBI's Most Wanted."

Sam looks at the envelope. "Yeah... but that's not why you took his name."

Sammy always was the one who knew him best.

"Not entirely, no," Dean agrees, very quietly.

Sam seems more surprised than offended, though, and considering that Dean's pretty much modeled his entire life all around Being A Winchester, Dean understands. He jerks his chin at the stationery. "Open it."

Sam does, his expression puzzled as he pulls out the little folded piece of paper. He skims it. It's only got one line on it, Dean knows. Dean's one class. There's a lot of blank space. Sam's lips move and his eyebrows crinkle together as he sounds out the weird combination of run-together letters and numbers that make the class code.

Then they jump up into his hairline when he sees the name.

His expression when he looks at Dean is bewildered and young, and a little like he just got dropped on his head. "You... went back to school? At the _University of Chicago?_ "

"Just one class," Dean mutters. "I mean, uh. I can basically take a class or two for some huge discount each semester, since Cas teaches at the Div School—"

 _"Div School?_ "

"Divinity School. I mean, he teaches some undergrad classes too, that’s the price he had to pay for being on sabbatical for so long. But that's his affiliation, technically—"

Sam is gaping at him. "I know what a Div School is, Dean, but... you _hated_ school. You couldn't wait to quit!"

Dean looks away.

He did. That was definitely true. He never felt like he fit in; he never felt like he could catch up. He knew how to do hunting. He had no fucking idea how to fit homework in between hunting and taking care of Sammy when he didn't give a damn what a cosine was. The only time he ever got grades he cared about was when he was at Sonny's, but Sam doesn't know about that.

"Guess maybe if things'd been different, I would have liked it better," he says, flicking the edge of the thick paper with his thumb. "'Cause they're different now, and it was kinda fun."

Sam flicks his eyes back to the paper. "B+... Dean, that’s not bad considering how long you've been out of academia." He doesn’t say that Dean never even finished high school and while he was in it, never met a class he couldn’t fail.

Dean's heart thunders in his chest. Jesus, he passed. Like, really passed. "Yeah," he says with a calm he’s not actually feeling. "I think Cas suggested this class as sort of a crash course in essay writing without actually getting me to enroll in Writing 101… I think that might've been so boring I'd genuinely consider blowing brains out. I'm pretty sure Cas has got a secret plan to get me my undergraduate degree one class at a time."

Both of Sam’s eyebrows jam together in the middle of his forehead and his eyes narrow. "Because he thinks you need it?" Oh look, it's protective, ferocious little brother Sam. Dean finds he kind of likes it in a weird way. He's been trying to experience new things lately, instead of ramming right through them like they never happened.

"Nah," Dean answers. "No, if I really wasn't interested, it'd be fine with him. I think he just wants me to know I can do it."

"Helps that you’re not paying out the nose for it, though, right?" But this time Sam's leaning in like it's a conspiracy.

He's not wrong though. It wasn't free, but it was a whole lot cheaper than if he was just some regular Joe Shmoe off the street. "Yeah.” Dean chuckles, softly. “And I don’t have to live in the dorms, either. Drive in three days a week with Cas. I think he called it a 'low-impact college experience.’"

Sam makes a crooked, weird little noise that Dean doesn't know how to interpret, and hands back the paper and envelope. Dean doesn't look down at it as he stuffs his report card—Jesus Christ—back in. Cas will probably want to file it or something. Dean doesn't know what half of the papers in Cas's office are, but he knows that he's going nowhere near there when it comes time to actually _do taxes_.

"I never really imagined it'd turn out this way," Sam says, quietly. But when Dean looks up, he's got a little smile on, and he’s watching the way the lights on the Christmas tree have started to twinkle; Amelia has them on a timer. "Me hunting with Bobby and you, well."

"Livin' in sin 'cause me and Cas being married ain't legal in this state?" Dean jokes. Honestly, he doesn't feel that strongly about it: he's got Cas's ring on his finger and Cas's last name on his paperwork, what the hell is there other than the cake and party? He's pretty sure Cas is dragging him off to the chapel or courthouse or whatever the moment it is legal, though. "I ain't hangin' up my gun for good, you know, Sam. Just... taking a break."

Dean catches sight of Cas out of the corner of his eye, lingering at the corner of the room. He felt the prickle of the angel wards going back up just a moment ago; he assumes Michael's headed off to do whatever it is archangels do when wandering the earth for the first time this epoch. Cas sends a warm look his way and a feeling of deep contentment, a little finger of amusement. That part’s a little new, getting specifics like that; it only started happening in the last month or so, but Dean likes it. Cas kisses the tips of his fingers, the sap, then moves off towards the second floor, and their bedroom. They'll talk later. They’ve already got the guest bedroom set up for Sam.

Dean knows Cas is giving him alone time with Sam. He's always very careful about that, and Dean loves him for it.

"Hmmm," Sam says, in that know-it-all tone that makes Dean really want to hit him. "Yeah, okay. But... hey. Dean… _are_ you happy?"

Dean turns his attention back to Sam, and smiles back. It's a new kind of smile for Dean, maybe only a year old at most, but the feel of it is something he's fast becoming a fan of. 

"Yeah, Sammy,” he answers, softly. “I'm happy."

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ami:** This has been so much fun! Thanks to all the readers who followed along all the way and to you readers who had the will power to wait? You astound me;)
> 
> There are approximately 8.5 timestamp ideas for this verse waiting on us. So we'll be back here sometime soon. But as we said in a far earlier chapter, Tia and I are a fanfic OSHA violation waiting to happen so for the safety of ALL we need to pace ourselves.
> 
> Thanks for reading!!
> 
>  **Tia:** It's hard to believe this is over; it feels like just yesterday that we started writing this entire rebellion against the way canon hurt us. We promised you guys schmoop, a bit of smut, and a lot of the boyos in love and being gross together while the found family averts the Apocalypse, and here's hoping that you found this as satisfying to read as we did to write!
> 
> Now: Ami and I are both feeling a touch guilty about the fact that they did not get a smutty finale. (Goodness, y'all thirsty souls, haven't they had enough sex already?!) There, um, will be timestamps. They will probably be smutty. Ami, stop looking at me like that.
> 
> Thank you for reading, for following along, for commenting, and for loving these boyos as much as we do!
> 
> ‘Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some have unwittingly entertained angels.’  
> —Hebrews 13:2, New King James version
> 
> "When a stranger sojourns with you in your land, you shall not do him wrong."  
> —Leviticus 19:33

**Author's Note:**

> If some of the dialogue from this seems like it comes verbatim from certain episodes of Supernatural? Some of it does. We used transcripts as reference for certain episodes, and then proceeded to modify at will!
> 
> We met on, and all of this is, the result of the [Profound Bond Discord Server](https://discord.gg/profoundbond). We've never met a nicer group of enablers in our lives. If you're so inclined to share in the madness, and are over 18, come join us!


End file.
